Killer
by aja aron
Summary: An elite covert operations unit carries out highly sensitive missions subject to official denial in the event of failure, death or capture. After his protoge is killed, Jim Phelps rejoins IMF to find the killer and the man who hired him.
1. Prologue

You need not have seen the series to read and understand this story.

_Warning:_ Spoilers abound! Also, I often work without a beta and I do have some dyslexic type issues that usually only emerge when I am tired. Recently, I was reading through my adaptation and discovered a horrifying number of typos. They should now be corrected, however, if you find any, feel free to let me know. Also, my prolog is a little wordy and convoluted , but if you forgive me this, I think you'll find the following chapters much more enjoyable.

_Disclaimer:_ The concept, the characters, and even the plot of this story do not belong to me. In an attempt to work on various aspects of my writing and overcome a serious crush of writer's block—brought on by losing half a completed story to a crashed computer—I decided to convert an episode or two of Mission Impossible (1988 version) to story form. This episode "Killer" served as the 1988 pilot episode but was itself an adaptation of an episode with the same title and plot from the original series.

_Show Information:_ Mission Impossible was a classic show—particularly inventive for the time in which it was made. It is often seen as the quintessential spy show. It was revived in 1988 during a writer's strike, and while many were of the opinion it was not up to par with the original series, the "re-make" met with moderate success. Had the circumstances of its revival been different, it may have done better (and been better done) but we will never know.

As most TV was back then, it was essentially a formula show. Not a lot of character background was given, very convenient plot devices were shamelessly employed, and plot holes abound (yet it remains extremely fun to watch and the characters/actors do "worried for each other" so amazingly well). While writing this I have, at times, attempted to fill in these plot holes or work around them but was not always able to do so (please grant me that leeway). I've also attempted to fill in some scenes and expand others to include a little character development in the story. Clearly whatever I have added or expanded upon is from my own conjecture and not meant to be canonical, if such a thing exists.

_Pointless Notes:_ You need not have seen the series to follow this story; however, a basic familiarity with the Mission Impossible concept (TV—not movie) would likely be helpful—but again, not totally necessary. On that note I'll state that the biggest disappointment regarding the movie (and yes—spoilers will be following this statement) is that the creators alienated fans of the original show by trying to turn the show's icon—Jim Phelps—into a bad guy. They also (in my opinion) failed to recognize what the team concept did for the show—instead, killing off the team concept, and turning the movie into "Tom Cruise: The Movie" followed unfortunately by "Tom Cruise: The Sequel." The existence of both movies are denied and disavowed for the remainder of this inane adventure.

A fan once made the comment that Hollywood did do a beautiful re-make of Mission: Impossible, but for some reason chose to call it Sneakers. I'd have to agree with this statement. If you want a good movie that was truly in the spirit of the series, watch Sneakers. Save the movie version for when you want a pure action flick—or Tom Cruise (and hey, I'm not judging… much).

Now, should you still chose the option of reading the following story, I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know if you do.

**

* * *

**

**MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE**

_Staring: _Peter Graves as _Jim Phelps_

Thaao Penghlis as _Nicholas Black_

Tony Hamilton as _Max Harte_

Phil Morris as _Grant Collier_ (That's right fans—Greg Morris's son)

Terry Markwell as _Casey Randall_

**

* * *

**

**Episode One: Killer**

Adaptation by Aja

_**

* * *

**_

_**Prologue**_

_"The farther you think you are from danger—the closer it has come to you."_

Tom Copperfield would be the first to admit that he didn't pause to ponder the fabric of life often. More often than not, life's fabric rolled itself right out in front of him. He knew all the patterns and colors, and could feel the changing texture of it under his fingers. It was vibrantly beautiful, and scary, and heavily laced with irony.

Blatant, subtle, cold, amusing, incidental, sarcastic—irony never ceased to entertain life's spectators because it never ceased to surprise them. For Tom Copperfield, the experience never ceased to give him pause. He was not a superstitious man, but he was a suspicious one and he believed in irony. He believed in irony like some men believe in religion. More than that, he believed in irony the way some believed in paranormal activity, government conspiracies, or alien invasions.

While there were always a dozen or more people ready to stand with fire and contention to elucidate the believing man's lack of proof or truth, Tom knew the believers were not altogether wrong.

After all, he _was_ a government conspiracy—an agent and team leader for the Impossible Missions Force. A world network of United States allied governments employing the elite of humanity. An association of the most talented and inscrutable spies. An agency so secret it destroyed all evidence of issued assignments and disavowed any knowledge of their sanctioned agents.

Working for IMF had made Tom realize that the religion of irony was a religion of give and take. It gave by putting him in a profession that ran through his blood, a profession he couldn't imagine not doing. It gave by seeing fit to ensure his teacher and mentor in that profession was the greatest team leader they'd ever had.

It took by damning Tom to the knowledge that he'd never be quite as good as Jim Phelps. It took by ensuring his trust in his own abilities would never match his trust in Jim's—or for that matter, Jim's trust in _him_.

He accepted these facts as truth because he also knew that while he couldn't match Jim as a leader, he would come _exceptionally_ close.

And irony had helped with that as well.

On missions it was a wielded tool—it seemed always to shock people, discovering vulnerabilities where they'd thought there were none. In day to day life it became the glassy tint that filtered his world view. He found it in everything—saw it surrounding the lives of everyone he encountered and knew his belief was contributing to his already suspicious nature.

He constantly calculated vulnerabilities, strengths, motivations—anything and everything exploitable to irony's intervention—in every situation. A honed habit so well developed he rarely missed even the slightest detail.

It was because of this belief, this honed skill, this pervading sense of suspicion, that he'd made the discovery that sent him down another road of intrigue. But it was the _take_ part of irony that prevented him from seeing the full picture sooner.

He was astounded at how long it had taken him to see what was right in front of his nose. But now that it was—now that he couldn't deny it…

His plan was simple. There was no extra effort required to get close to his target because he was close already, and getting closer all the time. He could feel it in the same achingly painful way his once-dislocated shoulder told him it was going to rain. The injury was old and violent, but left him the sensational instinct that had never failed him since.

The irony was that before the injury, Tom remembered liking rain.

* * *

The wealthy and philanthropic Alfred Chamber's pent-house party was in full swing when Mathew Drake stepped out of the elevator and smoothly showed his invite to the doorman.

Inwardly, Drake scoffed at calling the garish affair a _party_. He hated these things. The pointless yet pointed interactions that only added to the atmosphere of unreasoned privilege, and the arrogant belief of being untouchable. All in attendance ignoring the grit forty stories below, ignoring the grit in the midst of them. Once upon a time 'party' had meant casual clothes, loud music—the chance to act like a fool and be loved for it. This expensively catered event drew only those with expensive tastes in everything, and fingers in everything else.

They were altogether fools. Drake knew better than them. Everyone was touchable.

As he strolled casually but directly across the room to the balcony doors, he tuned out the insignificant conversations and focused on identifying the number of people Scorpio had set in attendance along with him. Drake recognized some but knew none would recognize him. That was how he worked. He didn't often associate with the others. He never stuck around long enough to do so. He never stuck around long enough to even be recognized.

Still in front of the balcony doors, Drake stopped. Down the stairs to his right was a blond-haired, blue-eyed man. His target. Tom Copperfield. He was easily identifiable, even without the physical description. Though his serious face fit perfectly with the small group of tuxedoed gentlemen surrounding him, the confident and easy way he stood set him subtly apart.

Drake held back a grin when he realized Scorpio himself was among the men Copperfield mingled with. Drake was rarely given the opportunity to perform his skills right in front of his boss.

He would make this interesting, for Scorpio's sake.

He didn't acknowledge Scorpio and Scorpio didn't acknowledge him. Mathew Drake was the consummate professional, and anonymity was of value to both of them.

Watching Copperfield, Drake smiled slightly. If all went well he'd be free from this facade of a party in less than five minutes.

He tucked his invitation smoothly into his pocket and moved onto the balcony. It was empty and he was glad. He pulled a metallic cylinder from his left pocket, sliding the crystallized drug within onto his palm. From his other pocket he pulled the metal shaft the drug would shoot from. He felt an odd sense of pleasure as the pieces locked easily together. Smooth and soundless. There would be no glitches.

Fixing the device in his hand, Drake turned back toward the doors and the elite society enclosed behind them, not even glancing at the spectacular San Francisco skyline.

When he stepped back into the room, he tracked Copperfield, seeing that he'd moved away from the balcony doors. Casually, Drake lifted a glass of champagne from a strolling server and watched. Copperfield shifted nearer to the food table, seemingly also seeking a glass of champagne. Drake sipped carefully. As he lowered the glass from his lips, the drug was fired unceremoniously into Copperfield's neck. The aim was flawless. And no one noticed a thing. Not a ripple of disturbance buzzed the other partygoers.

Copperfield's hand flew to his neck, groping. His eyes were wide, and the "oh no" that emerged from him was barely audible. Drake actually admired the intelligibility that swam through his victim's eyes as he searched the room for his assassin, comprehending and accepting his reality when most others would have spent their last seconds clinging to denial.

The clarity only lasted a moment, dissipating rapidly as the drug took over.

Drake's work was done.

Leaving his champagne on the table to his right he stepped up to the elevators, ignoring Copperfield clutching his neck less than two yards away.

The elevator welcomed him with a friendly ding as he entered demurely and pushed the button for the main lobby. He'd traveled only two floors down when he started to hear the screams. By the time he walked out the building's front doors, a small crowd was gathering around Tom Copperfield's body on the parking lot's hard pavement.

Sirens could already be heard ringing in the distance.

Drake bypassed the waiting cab drivers and they paid him no mind, too distracted by the gore of the scene to compete for a fare. He wanted to walk anyway.

The job had taken less time than he'd planned, and it was a beautiful night.

* * *

tbc


	2. Chapter One

**Episode One: Killer**

**Chapter One**

_

* * *

_

_"Hey Jim," Tom said casually._

_"Tom? How have you been? It's been a month since I last heard from you."_

_"If I didn't know better, Jim, I'd say you sound like you've been worried."_

_"I was." __The silence on the other end of the phone convinced Jim that Tom hadn't been prepared for such an honest answer, but he didn't dwell on that long. "You've been working solo again, or so I heard."_

_"Just some miner matters. I've been hearing a few things. I needed to get information that only one man could get."_

_"Oh?" Jim tried not to sound criticizing. Tom was a brilliant agent and a brilliant team leader and Jim was confident in his abilities. He couldn't expect, and didn't want, Tom to be like him, but he wished Tom would finally choose a solid team—a solid, interconnected team like he had. Jim considered it one of Tom's few flaws._

_He understood Tom not wanting to get too attached to a set group of people, but also knew that the attachment and concern felt for that set group of people was balanced by the safety net of trust and reliance they built with each other. A trusted team tempered and balanced the stress of their missions. They were more cohesive, more unified, more solid. They set a standard temporary teams couldn't always match. Though Jim had led missions with various agents, he preferred someone he knew standing at his shoulder—preferred it for Tom as well._

_Today, however, he wouldn't lecture Tom on working alone, or working with yet another new set of operatives. Firstly, Tom had heard it all from Jim before. Secondly, they tried to never get specific about work over the telephone, more so since Jim had retired. So "oh" would have to suffice._

_"Come on, Jim, don't give me that. I'm serious."_

_"What have you found?" Jim conceded, picturing Tom's head angled sideways in protest of his tone._

_"A trail of breadcrumbs—big white ones." Tom's voice was focused, but there was something else there as well, something that made the job sound personal. Tom sounded… confident and excited. He sounded determined and maybe… bitter?_

_"Leading where?" Jim asked. He wasn't sure Tom would tell him—Tom never expounded on his information until he was sure of it._

_"I'll let you know when I get there," he said, predictably. Blatantly enigmatic._

_"Be careful," Jim said, feeling foreboding in his own words, and a twist in his gut._

_"Aren't I always?"_

_

* * *

_

Jim Phelps was asleep and dreaming when the call came.

A dream like memory. One of those dreams where the sounds and motions of the outside world merge so completely with the images of the mind that the line separating truth and shadow is temporarily erased.

He blinked, repeatedly, listening to the ring, slowly realizing that the sound was not part of his dream. When he did finally wake fully, the phone was already on the sixth or seventh sound off. He sat up roughly, feeling unsettled, and unfinished, like his dream wasn't ready to let him go, and for some reason, he wanted to fall back asleep just so he could follow it through to the end.

That unsettled desire remained mulishly with him through the drudgery of that first day and seemed only to stick more solemnly to him in the days that followed. But even when Jim convinced himself to try to rest, the elusive dream refused to stay in his memory and—even more frustrating—to complete itself.

It wasn't really the dream that was bothering him though, Jim reminded himself on occasion. He didn't need a psychologist to explain to him how death and grief could play games with the soul. Jim wasn't superstitious, but it still felt like Tom Copperfield was haunting him.

And Tom would continue to do so until Jim had finished his job. Maybe then the loss of Tom would settle, and the sense of mental stickiness spinning through his dreams would finally go away.

* * *

_"In time, your grief will change into fond and loving memories. Although we are here to say goodbye to Tom Copperfield's body in this world, the one thing Christians have is eternal life. We believe that when God gives life he gives it forever. Even though they are no longer with us in this physical realm, they are here with us, at all times, in the hearts and minds of those left behind. May God give Tom life forever. May the perpetual light shine upon him…"_

Jim watched Tom's funeral from a distance, appearing, to any outside observer, calm and unmoved. He watched and listed as the preacher's platitudes receded and Tom's friends and family eventually stepped back from the casket, clearing his view.

_

* * *

_

_"Jim? What are you thinking about?" asked Tom._

_The question shook Jim from his thoughts. The coolness of the evening had descended around him without his notice. The lights of the marina were blinking on, mingling with the barely appearing stars above them. He sighed, glancing right. "Retirement," he admitted casually and couldn't help but laugh a little at Tom's horrified expression._

_"Why?" said Tom. "There's no reason for you to retire."_

_"Maybe," he shrugged back, "or maybe so."_

_"Like what? You can't claim you're too old for this because I'm fairly certain you're still in your early hundreds." Tom waited for Jim's obligatory laugh, and Jim noted Tom's typical resort to sarcasm. It was deflection, but it was also a part of Tom's personality he really enjoyed. It reminded him of the dry banter Barney and Rollin liked to engage in._

_"Your last four missions have gone off exactly as you planned. You're at the top of your game. Furthermore, you are this job, Jim. It's in your blood. It wouldn't be the same without you."_

_"It's not supposed to be the same, Tom. As a team leader you already know that when things change, you have to adapt. And you know that what works for me, isn't always going to work for you."_

_Tom was shaking his head in denial._

_"It's not about how many of your plans work to perfection," Jim tried to explain. His auspicious success had never been about perfection. But Tom was still shaking his head, words hovering just behind his lips, ready to deny the validity of any explanation Jim could come up with._

_Jim decided to move to the heart of the matter._ _"Tom, my team has already moved on. They're out of this—for the most part." He felt compelled to clarify. None of his old teammates had allowed themselves to completely leave. All continued to serve IMF in one form or another. He was as sure of that as he was of them. But they were done with the heavy missions. They'd moved on. He felt their absence in his missions, in his life, and knew, "It's time I joined them."_

_"Oh, the team, the team! Jim, you can work with anyone—I've seen you."_

_"It's not the same, Tom. I wish I could say it was, but it's not."_

_"So adapt—isn't that what you've been telling me?"_

_"This is adapting," he countered carefully. "Tom, at the very least, I'm ready for a break."_

_"Not yet, Jim. You can't go just yet."_

_Jim read the hesitation in Tom's voice though his eyes were kept carefully blank. "Tom, __I'm__ not what's made you a good team leader—you are."_

_Tom let the blankness dissipate, chin tipping towards his chest. "That may be. But you're still the one I go to when I can't see how to finish something I've started. You may think that I won't—but __I __know the time will come when I'll need you here again."_

_"__If__ you need that, I'll be here—just no more missions for a while."_

_Tom sighed, a longsuffering sigh. "I suppose then I shall have to grant you permission to retire." Imperious words, said with sarcasm, but a tiny speck of denial lingered in his gaze._

_"Oh, thanks," said Jim in equal tone._

_"Any final advice?"_

_"__Final__ advice? I'm only in my early hundreds. I'm not dead. If you want advice, you can call me."_

_Tom smiled. "Just making sure you plan to pick up the phone."_

_

* * *

_

The memory of Tom's voice in Jim's head was so clear he wanted to turn around to make sure Tom wasn't—in actuality—standing behind him, waiting to tell him he'd faked his death for his mission or something else equally outrageous. But Jim kept his face forward. He knew he'd find only empty space.

He gave a tight, determined nod toward Tom's casket, where it waited to be lowered into the ground. A nod both acknowledgement and promise. Whatever mourning Jim still had to do for Tom would be done later. Right now he had a mission to complete. When he saw Tom again—that mission would be finished.

Retired or not, Jim wouldn't let this one pass and the IMF would welcome him back. This wasn't the only time he'd broken his retirement.

But maybe, when the exertion and wrestle of this nightmare was over, Jim would finally move on for good. Tom was his last real emotional tie to IMF. As he'd told Tom years ago, all his truly trusted teammates were already out. Jim would finish this, and then go somewhere obscure, somewhere the IMF didn't care about. He would live in peace and involve himself only in activities where he didn't feel inclined to build strong attachments to those who could be lost.

If such a place existed.

The thoughts weren't very realistic, but Jim believed, in reality, almost nothing was impossible.

* * *

tbc


	3. Chapter Two

**Episode One: Killer**

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Jim Phelps walked onto the peer with reticent anticipation, feeling the familiarity of IMF easily return. If not for the reason he was taking this mission, Jim might have admitted that he'd missed it—missed it immensely. The feeling was embittered by Tom's death. The reminder twisted heavy in his chest.

The fisherman standing by the peer's left railing was a typical IMF contact, non-descript and bleeding into the background—fitting precisely and naturally into the current environment. Likely because it _was_ his natural environment.

Jim might not have even recognized him as a contact, were it not for the fact that he knew him—casually. He'd worked with Tom on several missions.

In addition to the obvious, the man wore a white hat (never let it be said the IMF didn't have a sense of humor) and conveniently fished off the peer outside the same Marina where Jim kept his boat. All signs pointing obviously to an agent of the IMF—if only to Jim.

"What do you use for bait when you're fishing?" Jim asked, approaching the man casually.

"I don't use bait. I use a spinner," the fisherman answered.

"Oh, I only use a spinner when I'm game fishing." There was an inanity in the coded conversation that Jim oddly enjoyed.

"They say the man they buried this morning worked for one of those secret government agencies."

Jim swallowed. "That's what I understand," he said.

"I hear the man was a team leader, the best they ever had, except for the man who trained him. They say those two were like father and son."

"Yes, they were," Jim said carefully.

The man nodded, respect and consolation, then he slowly walked away, leaving Jim in solitude.

Jim stepped forward. He removed the IMF player from the fisherman's tackle box, and in moments had placed the provided digital disk into the player and keyed in the access code. The small screen snapped to life, showing a dark haired man engaged in varying activities.

Jim memorized his features, even before voiceover started explaining who he was.

_"Welcome back, Jim. Though I wish it weren't under these circumstances. This man is responsible for the death of Tom Copperfield. No one knows his real name. He uses many identities. Currently he's using the name Mathew Drake. From what we can learn, Drake has an exclusive contract with a powerful underworld leader whom we know only by his code name—Scorpio."_

_Scorpio_, Jim thought, realizing as he rolled the name through his mind that he felt cheated. The name should have meant more—hearing the name of Tom's killer should have been someone Jim's mind could dredge up and mentally throttle. Who was this man? What breadcrumbs had he left that had sent Tom in his pursuit?

_"Tom Copperfield was moving in on Scorpio when he was killed. Eventually, Drake will be ordered to kill again. Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to prevent his next murder and discover Scorpio's identity—the man ultimately responsible for Tom Copperfield's death. Should any of your IM force be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This disc will self destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Jim."_

Jim closed the lid of the player and stood. He wasn't sure which was more ironic, the fact that by killing Tom, Scorpio had garnered attention from the IMF he'd could never possibly escape, or that by sending an assassin after Tom, Scorpio had provided them with the perfect lead, one Jim would contentedly use to produce his downfall.

He didn't ponder the irony long. He walked away, possibilities already swirling in his mind and a self-destructing disk smoking behind him.

* * *

The house IMF had set up for Jim stood on twelve and a half acres of beachfront property that maintained its privacy by ensuring the nearest neighbors were ten miles away. He could tell, even before he made it through the front door, that they'd calculated it specifically for him. The open and graceful design, the neutral colors, even the semi-secluded location—all felt like an attempt to entice him out of retirement.

Permanently.

They would have to live in disappointment.

Just the same, he took his time wandering the premises in appreciation before turning to the task of choosing a team. The subtle yet distinctive surroundings lent themselves to Jim's confidence in the organization he'd dedicated his life to. He was confident that they'd know the agents he'd want to work with as well.

The granite-laid coffee table was empty except for the sleek black remote control waiting on its surface. Jim lifted it and punched in his code numbers while seating himself on the bordering black leather couch. The first button he pushed triggered the appearance of a secreted console, flawlessly waiting within the folds of the coffee table's granite top.

Shaking his head with a small smile, Jim couldn't help but be a little impressed. "Time does march on," he said to the empty room.

The next button he pushed yielded similar results, this time revealing a wide digital screen concealed in the support column opposite the console.

Though the technology had changed, Jim was unruffled. An instinctual part of him knew this would always be what he was meant for. This is what he was truly good at. Even in his absence he'd often felt the pull of it. Like a physical force.

Barney had always said that what sent IMF agents apart from other operations in the world of espionage was the inability of the agents to walk away. They took the impossible missions because they didn't accept impossible. They couldn't _not_ try.

_Well, Barney, you were right, _Jim thought_—I can't walk away from this one._

Tapping a few keys on the console's keyboard called up the information IMF had linked into Jim's computer. The wide screen came to life showing a thin young man with dark eyes, smoothly tan features, and black hair. The recorded voiceover started giving Jim the young agent's information.

_"Nicholas Black—excels in disguise, languages and acting. When Nicholas isn't working for us, he's teaching Drama at an Eastern University."_

The candid footage on screen showed Nicholas with several young students. He had an easygoing smile on his face but a serious set to his shoulders. Something in the way he seemed to carry himself reminded Jim of Tom. Though in looks they couldn't be more opposite, there was something there. In the way Nicholas stood, the astute expression. Jim pondered the picture a moment longer, but justification for the similarities he perceived never materialized.

Nicholas was younger than Tom, Jim noted, just over a decade between them. Tom's time in the IMF would have him weathering the rapid progress of IMF technology. Nicholas would have been brought right into the heart of an advanced generation of agents. A new generation from which Jim knew he would be selecting all his agents. He'd spoken truth—time _does_ march on.

He punched the key on the computer that would accept Nicholas Black as the first member of his new team. Jim was still missing the details on the agent, which left him with remaining questions—like how Nicholas had gotten involved with IMF and why. But he'd have time to familiarize himself with those details later.

As though reading his thoughts, the computer voiceover continued, _"As with all selections, further information is available in printout." _The printer hummed, even as the word "accepted" scrolled across the screen, securing and encoding Nicholas's information onto Jim's computer.

Jim's light fingers sent the computer on to the next agent.

_"Casey Randall—was a top designer on three continents when her fiancé was killed in a terrorist bombing. She helped trap the terrorists responsible and has worked with IMF ever since."_

Watching the resourceful Casey Randall on screen made the next selection a no-brainer. Red hair framed intelligent eyes, the intensity in them evidencing her character. Jim had no doubt she would prove capable of adapting quickly to any rough situation or unforeseen complication. She would offer the team the balance from her able and calm reactions. She'd obviously stayed composed enough to capture her fiancé's killers. Doing so in an Impossible Mission's scenario couldn't have been easy.

He hit the computer key that would lock her information in with Nicholas Black's.

_"Max Harte was still in high school when the Vietnam War ended. When his brother didn't come home from a POW camp, Max organized his own mission to find him and did."_

Jim didn't hesitate in selecting Max Harte either. A few rapid key taps added him effortlessly to the new team file. Max Harte would prove essential, his skills a core necessity for any team. The blond man shown on the screen was tall, rugged, and built. Strength and determination vied for dominance in keenly bright eyes. His history alone bespoke of his unwillingness to accept defeat, or loss, without expending every effort. If Max had been determined enough as a high school boy to successfully rescue his brother—Jim was certain he'd be proficient in taking down Tom's killers.

All Phelps needed now was someone technically inclined—someone intelligent enough to work the team's needs behind the scenes yet still step up to center stage when necessary. He didn't expect an exact replica of Barney Collier, but would give just about anything to have his old friend back working with him again. He'd have to see who IMF presented to him and hope for the best.

New footage rolled onto the screen as Jim hit another button on the remote.

_"Grant Collier—that's right Jim—Barney Collier's son."_

Jim smiled. He almost laughed. This was all the evidence he needed to realize how well the IMF knew him, how they'd know exactly what he'd want.

_"…and where Barney left off, his son picked up. Grant graduated from MIT at 16, where one of his professors called him the greatest inventive mind to come out of MIT in 20 years."_

Jim wondered if Grant remembered meeting him. He'd been only ten at the time—ridiculously young and intensely smart, with a proclivity for trouble that had put Barney into worried flusters lasting for days. He hadn't heard from Barney recently, but… how had Barney's son started working for IMF without Jim knowing? He felt like he should have known.

Watching the screen, Jim noted that Grant Collier could no longer be called a boy. No more so than any of the other new team members. Although on the whole, the team was young—all roughly within the same age range—Jim recognized the keen experience they represented. Without a doubt, they'd be capable of handling any mission they were handed, no matter how impossible.

With another quick tap of the remote, Grant's downloaded information joined the rest. Jim gave a satisfied nod as his four new teammates appeared in different quadrants of the screen.

He punched another button on his remote, calling up the footage of Mathew Drake.

His shoulders tightened. He felt a jump in his jaw muscle.

_You're finished_, he thought. Y_ou're finished_.

* * *

tbc


	4. Chapter Three

**Episode One: Killer**

**Chapter Three**

* * *

Grant Collier hung up his apartment phone with practiced frustration. His sister Jamie had just gone another round with him about his job. When he'd graduated MIT, he'd tried to hide his employment choice from her for as long as possible but she was no fool. She was every bit as smart as he was and had always been able to tell when he was lying to her. Grant knew Jamie, with her calm intelligence, could have chosen to work for the IMF herself—they _had_ wanted her, but she'd refused.

She hadn't wanted them or the life they offered. In her mind, the IMF had taken their father away from her, and from them. She didn't want it taking her brother too. Grant understood that, but, for him, things were different.

In his mind, he could no more _not_ work for IMF than he could choose the color of his skin. It was in his blood, his genes. He simply _was_ IMF—had been since the day he was born. He could try to deny it but the truth would never change. And working missions had helped him understand his father in a way he never had while growing up.

All he'd known then was that Barney Collier was a good man and he'd always wanted to be just like him.

The problem was that right now Barney Collier was also a missing man. It wasn't entirely unusual for his father to be missing. A few weeks or a month would go by with no word from him and then suddenly a letter or postcard would show up postmarked from the south of France, Northern Brazil, Kenya, an obscure Russian satellite country, or an endless list of other odd locations.

Grant even remembered one postcard that had been sent from Antarctica. To this day he didn't know what his father had been doing there, or where he'd found a post office, but true to IMF form, Grant usually didn't ask.

Barney's absences worried him just as much as they worried his sister but he was usually able to take them in stride. Conversely, when Barney Collier went missing, Jamie Collier tended to take most of her worry out on the Collier she _could_ reach. It was usually those times that Grant regretted picking up the phone. Everything said between him and his sister on the subject was already old, but he repeated the practiced lines anyway. "I'm sure we'll hear from him soon, Jamie," and, "No, I'm not going to quit my job."

He was thinking he should just put the lines on a recorder—the answers would never change.

It wasn't even just that IMF was in his blood. It wasn't just the adrenaline rush or the conquered impossible challenge. Grant believed in his missions. He believed in what they did and what they stood for. Jamie could never quite accept that part.

When the phone rang again, less than five minutes after hanging up with her, Grant wanted to ignore it, certain that those five minutes had given Jamie the time to work herself up for another go at him. He tried to ignore it but a small nagging pull in his gut wouldn't let him.

"Grant Collier," he said formally.

"An old friend of your father's has requested to see you, Mr. Collier. I've been asked to see you get the message."

Grant recognized the voice. He'd heard it hundreds of times and knew what it meant. He had a mission. "Of course," he answered. "I'll be glad to see him. Is something wrong?"

"Yes, Mr. Collier, I'm afraid there has been a death in the family."

Grant slowly drew in air. An agent had been killed. The phrase could mean nothing else. "I'm sorry to hear that." He cleared his throat. "What is it he'd like me to do?"

* * *

Max Harte kicked idly at the wrench next to his toe, shaking his head in sorrowful frustration at the helicopter he'd been trying to fix. The damage he'd hoped was minimal was looking more and more like it was terminal. The thought didn't penetrate well. He had a hard time giving up on his birds.

He had a hard time giving up on anything.

Already his mind was spinning, considering replacement parts he had on hand and evaluating the prices of the ones he'd need to find. He could strip the bird and rebuild her from the inside out—make some power adjustments. It would be a long project but he could do it. He'd done it with the scrapped black GTO sitting behind his garage and the near totaled 1968 mustang his brother had bought at auction.

Jesse had had an enormous love for old machines.

Besides, it would fill the empty times between missions. And he needed to fill that time. He needed something to occupy his mind, and effort. It's not that he didn't enjoy his time between missions—it wasn't really in his nature to _not_ enjoy things—but flying helicopter tours had lost some of the thrill since he'd started running the business alone.

It wasn't Jesse's fault. The cancer had simply proved unbeatable. Already a year had passed since his brother's death but Max felt Jesse's absence every time he went airborne. It was a natural feeling. Jesse was the one who'd taught him how to fly. He should enjoy flying for his brother's sake, if nothing else.

IMF Missions were different. They were situations in which he could act—he could actively do something about a problem in a way he hadn't been able to do in the face of his brother's cancer. On missions, Max knew he could make a difference. Maybe not for himself, but for someone, he could make things better.

Max considered the broken helicopter again, and started a written list of the supplies he would need.

The interruption of his crackling air traffic radio was almost a relief and he broke away from the extensive and daunting list with joy. He was even more pleased when the coded words cutting through the frequency revealed his unspoken wish to be called on for another mission had been fulfilled.

He'd be flying to San Francisco before the day was out.

* * *

"Casey, who was that?"

Casey Randall settled the phone back into its cradle, looking back into Mrs. Jennings's aristocratic features. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Jennings. I've had a situation come up in my family and I'm afraid I'll not be able to finish those designs. I'll pass them over to Cheryl—she's very good."

"Oh, dear, I hope it's nothing serious." The woman fluttered a hand over her heart in false sympathy.

"Me too," said Casey. "I don't mean to rush you, but I've got to leave right away." She picked up Mrs. Jennings's coat and purse, handing them to her before reaching for her own. "I'll walk you out."

Pulling on her jacket, the woman allowed Casey to guide her to the door. "Well, when do you think you might return?" she asked, as though only now realizing that Casey was serious about not being able to complete her designs—suddenly worried she was losing the elusive and hard to contract designer she'd worked so hard to hire.

"I'm afraid it's impossible to say. I've got to meet my uncle right away. Don't worry, Cheryl will be happy to take over. I promise you won't be disappointed."

They were now standing on the broad walkway outside the exclusive design studio. "Oh, well…"

"Goodbye, Mrs. Jennings, Cheryl will be in contact by tomorrow." Casey moved toward her car without a backwards glance. Ever since she'd lost Peter, dealing with the insincere platitudes of customers that only wanted to keep her happy enough to get her work, grated on raw nerves. She'd loved design—the art and expression of it. But losing Peter had made it all meaningless—highlighting the falseness of the society she'd been mixed up in. None of them really cared that she'd lost her fiancé and no one had wanted to do anything about it—even Peter's family.

Casey hadn't been able to be complacent about it. She wouldn't just accept his loss as a tragedy she could do nothing about. When IMF had approached her with their offer, asking for her help, she'd not hesitated to accept—not then and never since.

* * *

_"Tom Copperfield." Tom held his hand out openly, but Nicholas Black noted the wariness in his eyes. Wariness was part of their profession—an innate part of working for IMF that was either part of you when you started or didn't take you long to develop._

_But it was the weariness in Tom's eyes that bothered Nicholas more. Wariness gave you an edge. Weariness, the kind of weariness Tom Copperfield was showing, was the kind that got you dead. The burden of suspicion born of not trusting enough people—always being on your guard and never able to let it slip._

_Nicholas decided if he ever saw that look in the eyes staring back at him from the mirror, it would be time for him to quit IMF—no matter how much that would kill him._

_"Nicholas Black," he returned. He shook Copperfield's hand securely, but let hesitation and curiosity surface in his voice. "Do you take in student theatre often?" he asked skeptically. IMF was known to contact him in a variety of curious ways but never had that included attending his student's plays._

_"Not often," Tom answered. "But yours are no ordinary students. I've never seen the play performed better."_

_There it was, thought Nicholas, the inane codices of the IMF. He smiled, ready to play along. "I can take you on a tour backstage if you like."_

_"I'd like that," said Tom. "As long as it's convenient. I don't want anything official."_

_So Copperfield wasn't here on official business then—curiouser and curiouser. "We don't often get official around here—only when we perform Macbeth—so I think you're safe. Come on, I'll show you the sets._ _Nicholas turned, walking up the steps to the stage. _

_Looking relieved, Tom followed._

_Nicholas had heard of Tom Copperfield, few in IMF hadn't. But he'd never met the man in person, and couldn't fathom what he would want to speak with him about… unofficially._

_By the time he led Tom into the stage's wings, pointing out the backstage props so Tom wouldn't trip over them in the dark, the theater was mostly empty. Nicholas took a seat in one of the prop department's cushioned chairs, and started pulling off the mustache and beard he'd applied for his small part in his student's play._

_Tom sat opposite, choosing the hard bench rather than the easy chair._

_Nicholas waited._

_This was Tom's game._

_"Nicholas." Tom hesitated, dragging a thumb across his chin. "I've come to ask your help with something, and I think I can trust you."_

"Nicholas?"

Nicholas popped his head up towards his office door, subtly shielding the folder of information he was reviewing. "Professor James. I'm sorry, I didn't hear you knock."

"Are you all right? You look like you've been here all night."

Nicholas closed the folder containing his notes on Tom Copperfield and dropped it on his desk, rubbing hands over his eyes. "I'm fine. I just got… caught up in something."

Professor James opened the door wider and came in to lean on the desk. "Anything I can help you with?"

Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the remembrance of Tom's hesitant voice from his mind. _Nicholas, I've come to ask your help with something…_

"I'm afraid not, Professor—just a personal matter."

…_and I think I can trust you._

"You've got to take care of yourself, Nicholas. You're not always going to be a young man, you know. Someday you'll be old like me."

"Thanks, Professor." Nicholas smiled ruefully. "Was there something you needed?" He hoped Professor James didn't dwell too much on the abrupt change of subject. Ever since he'd started teaching, the friendly professor had taken him under his wing, inviting him to join his family on holidays and take occasional Sunday meals.

"Actually, yes," said Professor James, dropping a written phone message in front of him. "You got a call at the front desk. They tried to transfer it back, but you weren't picking up your phone. It seemed urgent."

Nicholas opened the folded paper. _Your uncle needs help with your cousin's funeral_, it read, followed by _please call_ and a phone number. Nicholas swallowed. Tom's mission. He was being called to Tom Copperfield's case. His _uncle_—Uncle Sam or Jim Phelps. Likely a reference to the latter.

He'd always wanted the chance to work with Jim. He hadn't really expected it though—the man was retired. And he'd definitely not expected it to come like this.

"Nicholas, I didn't know you had an uncle," Professor James questioned, looking abashed, as though he didn't want to pry. It was less than common knowledge, but most in the drama department knew Nicholas didn't have any family.

"He's not my real uncle, exactly," he explained. "In fact I've never met him. I only met my cousin just last week—barely acquaintances really."

"Ah yes," Professor James said. He dropped a hand on his Nicholas's shoulder. "Even if you didn't know him, it's still hard to lose family."

Nicholas nodded, swallowing carefully again, noting the truth in the old professor's words. He stood up, rubbing hands over his face again. "Thank you, Professor. I'd better get going. I'm sure Jean will cover my class."

"She usually does," the professor commented wryly.

Nicholas shrugged that comment off, focusing now on other things. If he was going to be of use on this mission he needed to not look like walking death. He wondered if he would have time to grab a quick shower.

At least he would have time to sleep on the plane.

* * *

tbc

* * *

To The Reviewers: MI fan and Doc—thank you both for your comments. I was also disappointed with the series was cancelled. I watched the tapes recently and couldn't help myself. There were a few fan fictions that popped into my head, but it seemed useless to write them if no other fans existed that would get them. I started converting the pilot to maybe possibly introduce people to the fandom before trying anything else. It's majorly helped me get over the writer's block. I'm also really glad to know I'm not the show's only fan.


	5. Chapter Four

**Episode One: Killer**

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Casey and Grant arrived first, both within an hour of having been accepted onto Jim's team. They shook Jim's hand warmly and while Grant immediately began to organize their various equipment needs, Casey reviewed the team's profiles and started an account of logistical requirements.

Coming from a further distance, Max and Nicholas didn't arrive until later that evening, but brought with them a subtle rhythm that the five together settled into flawlessly and without conscious thought. For Jim the feeling was eerily reminiscent of the early days among his now mostly retired team. The instantaneous ease and familiarity beguiled his memory.

He kept looking up from a task expecting to see Rollin or Barney speaking to him instead of Nicholas and Grant. The resulting sensation was alluring. The enticement to learn more about these young agents—to invest in them—pulled at him.

As a team they spent the final hours of the night setting up and detailing contingency plans. Jim watched the four closely as they worked, looking for details of their personalities, in their gestures and movements, in the way they spoke to each other. Every subtle interaction.

The information he got from the process was invaluable. If he watched enough he'd be able to pick out which gestures or facial expressions might matter on their mission. Would recognize which gestures indicated undue stress or exhaustion, which ones demonstrated a level of seriousness, or a need for help.

Watching, he was impressed at the way they appeared to balance each other, how a comment started by one would be picked up by another. He applauded the way they checked their strengths and weaknesses against each other, holding nothing back, ensuring they would know where they might need to fill in the possible cracks between their skills, attempting to ensure no mistakes in the mission would be made.

Jim made less technical observations as well, processing this information in a less conscious way. Grant had a wide, honest grin and very serious eyes. Casey moved like a dancer and had a quiet laugh. Max's strongly obvious Australian accent echoed off the walls, while Nicholas's softer, yet no less distinctive, Mid-Atlantic accent did not.

He stood in the doorway watching the young team interact. Listening to a ripple of laughter as Max and Nicholas reminisced of times in Australia, comments from Casey and Grant blending smoothly into the mix. Jim was grateful for how quickly the four agents unified, and contented by how intensely they viewed the success of their mission.

Tom would have found them a fitting team.

Jim closed his eyes as his thoughts rebounded back to Tom. Already Tom's funeral—though only held that morning—felt an eternity away, but the emotions it provoked in him were as fresh as when he received the midnight phone call.

"Guys," Casey's supportive voice cut through his thoughts and the other's chatter. "We should get some rest. We could have to go at any time." The three young men agreed quickly and set about ensuring the kitchen and any other room they'd used was returned to its immaculate state.

"Do we know which rooms we're set up in?" Max asked.

Nicholas looked up from his stance near the coffee table.

"There are five rooms in the house," Jim stepped forward as he spoke. "I've been using the one above our conference room." He spoke indifferently of the house, not thinking of it as his, even though it felt natural to do so. "And I believe Grant made sure the room off the front entry was set for Casey." He looked to Grant who nodded in confirmation.

The others followed Jim's gaze, all willing to allow the resident technician the right to set up their remaining sleep arrangements.

"Yeah, Casey is down here. And I think Max is best set up in the back room off the kitchen—it has easy access to the rest of the house." Grant didn't need to clarify his reasoning. Max had already taken up position as the team's informal bodyguard. "That leaves Nicholas and me in the loft rooms just above him. Now, I've linked our communicators to the communication system here in the house." Grant slid small black devices toward each of them. "With the touch of a button Jim can have one or all of us ready to go."

Jim picked up his communicator and slid it into his pocket. "The minute I know what Drake's doing, so will you," he promised. "Let's get some rest."

The four quickly complied and as they withdrew they nodded politely in Jim's direction—looks sympathetic but withholding pity. It spoke volumes to him of their character. IMF had come through for him, sending him agents of a caliber he couldn't imagine even hoping for, and he was grateful.

"You'd like them, Tom," he whispered out loud. "I think you'd like them."

* * *

It was early the next morning when the team assembled in the main room, the conference room—the room Jim had started calling the _war room_, if only to himself. It felt appropriate. War was what he was planning for, if it came to it. He hoped the others were ready.

On the already unhidden wide screen, Jim called up the footage of Mathew Drake, then paced slowly around the room while readying to explain the details of their next move.

"Late yesterday I got word Drake has orders to go to England. I've since learned that his plane is due to arrive at Heathrow airport at 9:00am on Friday and that he's booked out under two separate names on flights later that night."

"Which means if he's going to kill someone, he has to do it within that time frame." Nicholas, sitting on the couch farthest from Jim, picked up on the detail Jim was hoping they'd all notice. This was their window of opportunity.

Standing behind Nicholas, Max leaned against the back of the couch and asked, "Any idea who his target is?"

"Not yet," Jim answered. "Apparently he has to make a phone call when he reaches London to get that information."

"He's not going to make this easy," Casey commented.

Jim agreed. Drake may appear to be boxing himself in by the flight's timeframe, but he hadn't become so elusive by not being flexible.

Nicholas clarified the concern. "Drake has stayed alive by _not_ making things easy. In all the murders he's been linked to, he's never killed twice in a row in the same fashion."

"Yes," Jim acknowledged. "From the hallucinogenic drug he gave Tom Copperfield to a sniper's riffle. He always chooses something different. And the problem is he waits till the last possible moment to choose."

"At Random—that's the key," said Nicholas, and Jim could see his mind was already jumping ahead in the plan.

"There's a certain logic to that," Max added. "If I don't know what I'm going to do, then neither does anybody else." He met Jim's eyes and Jim could see the plan was clarifying for him as well.

"Yes, that's why we have to get close to him—right inside his skin. We have to know what he's going to do at the same time he knows it himself. Grant?"

Grant moved over to the computer console, starting to type while saying, "Well, I've been in contact with London and they're going to loan us the couple of extra men we'll need."

"Does that include the laser technician?" asked Jim, knowing Grant had been speaking on the phone about it since the crack of dawn.

"That's right," Grant confirmed. He then keyed a picture onto the screen and started to explain, "We're looking at the kind of hotel Drake seems to favor—small but classy. He selects these at random also. In this case, we're going to make his random selection for him." Grant smiled a smile that told Jim IMF was in Grant's blood every bit as much as his father's. "This will be the one he chooses—absolutely under our control. All previous identification has been removed. Right now it's a total blank." He looked up at the others then nodded to Jim to show he was finished—they were ready.

Jim considered the faces of his team. They seemed ready. They seemed confident. They all seemed so very much like Tom Copperfield…

_"Don't second guess yourself on this one, Tom," said Jim, "trust your instincts."_

_"Thanks, Jim," Tom nodded, appearing ready. A beat of hesitation passed and he asked, "Jim, don't you ever worry that there's something you haven't thought of… something that you missed?"_

_"All the time, Tom, it's called covering the angels. If the plan starts to go badly or something comes up that you don't expect—you adapt. You take plan B or C or even Q. You don't let yourself run out of options."_

_Tom had smiled. "Don't worry, Jim—I'm not going to let that happen."_

Jim snapped out of his reverie. "Alright," he said to the team. "We can't afford any mistakes. If we lose Drake, we'll lose our chance to identify his boss, Scorpio."

"Jim, we're not going to let that happen." Jim looked down at Nicholas's confident statement, hearing Tom instead, expecting the voice to sound like Tom's.

_Don't worry Jim—I'm not going to let that happen._

_Don't worry…_

Jim found himself wondering again what it was about Nicholas that reminded him of Tom, and what about Nicholas seemed so fundamentally different.

"We know what this one means to you," added Casey.

Grant and Max nodded with her, meeting Jim's gaze with assurance and fortitude. Jim wasn't sure what he should say—what he could say. He'd taken on personal missions before but always felt leery when asking for help. Always worried he might be demanding too much by expecting others to take up a cause not their own—afraid he'd be asking more than was fair when the problem or situation was his to take care of.

He remembered asking his old team to take on a personal mission for him once—one not even remotely sanctioned, or even known about, by the Secretary. When he'd hesitated in asking his friends for help, they had looked at him exactly as the four young agents in his living room were looking at him now. Jim remembered he had stumbled trying to explain his need, stumbled trying to express his understanding should his teammates choose not to participate.

Rollin had sat patiently through his short speech—his face expressionless, then asked, _"Are you done?"_

_"Yeah," _Jim had answered cautiously.

_"Good," _Rollin had said in his dryly typical way. _"Jim, not often, but sometimes, you talk too much."_

Barney and Willy had backed the statement with wry nods of agreement.

Jim had learned from them and knew now not to discount what it had meant for his team to help a friend. Their same determination was reflected in the faces of this new team. Jim lifted his chin in appreciation, acknowledged their unified front. Perhaps they did know exactly what this one meant to him. And he was starting to realize it meant something to them too.

* * *

tbc


	6. Chapter Five

**Episode One: Killer**

**Chapter Five**

* * *

Jim had the team stagger their arrivals in England, for no other reason than the convenience of setting them to different tasks on different continents in the interim before they rejoined each other late Thursday afternoon. The anticipation for the coming job was high but Jim felt confident they were ready for Drake's arrival. By Friday morning, however, the feeling of readiness was overshadowed by a continuing descent into chaos.

Jim, after seeing that his team was professionally and unemotionally dealing with the emerging hazards, called one last meeting with an old friend in the London office, just to cover all their bases. He wanted to ensure they'd have resources and support beyond what they'd already asked, should the need arise.

He just couldn't let this one go—not without every possible angle covered.

The accommodating London director shifted several agents into Jim's periphery, where they would stay awaiting Jim's orders. Enough IMF personnel to fill cracks in the plan if any opened up.

By the time he finally caught a cab back to Grant's blank hotel, traffic in that direction had frozen like ice. Ahead, Jim could just make out a tipped double-decker bus and the crunched moving van it had collided with. Cursing, he started to worry that he wouldn't make it back in time for Drake's arrival, but it was then that Max contacted him to say Drake's plane was over an hour late.

Even so, Jim couldn't seem to arrive at the hotel fast enough. By 10:55 he'd finally made it. Breathing in relief, he quickly paid the cabbie and jogged up the stairs. He could hear voices inside.

_"The outside camera is operative… this one will be ready in a minute." _Jim knew the voice wasn't Grant's and assumed it belonged to one of the London supporters already assigned.

_"Good."_

Jim knew that voice already—even with just one short word he could identify Casey. The two sounded like they were making progress fixing the camera wires that had blown that morning.

_So far this operation is moving as smoothly as a train wreck_, he thought.

Both Casey and the stranger looked at him when he opened the door and entered. "Anymore on Drake's plane?" he asked.

"It's over an hour late," Casey shrugged. With a small gesture she indicated the man she was with. "Jim, meet Tim Conner from our London office. He's here helping Grant with some of our laser work."

_And camera wiring_, Jim noted mentally. He stepped forward to shake Tim Conner's hand, saying honestly, "Glad to have you aboard, Tim."

"Thank you, sir. It's an honor to work with you." It was a sincere response.

Jim left off greeting Conner with a simple nod before turning back to Casey. "An hour late," he said, the morning's frustrations cutting into his voice.

"Will that affect our plan?" she asked, walking with him through the ornate but uncomplicated lobby—carrying the toolbox Tim had been using to fix the camera.

Jim led her behind the front desk as he answered. "It could. If he has to make his phone call at a pre-arranged time… if he has to make the call before he checks into his…" Jim gestured at the nameless, marquee-less room, "…hotel." They were already cutting the schedule close. If the plane was any later, they weren't going to have the time they needed to convert the 'blank' hotel into Drake's hotel.

Jim pushed on the rows of small shelves lining the back wall behind the desk. The entire section swung inward, revealing the secret room behind. This room truly _did_ look like a war room. Cemented and unfinished walls framed the IMF equipment they'd brought in. Nicholas's makeup supplies and his and Max's clothing changes were sitting in one corner, Grant's electronics scattered throughout the rest of it.

Jim weaved toward where Grant sat at a makeshift desk, staring into a computer monitor. "Anything, Grant?" he asked, sliding out of his trench coat.

The young technician looked up from the screen. "Drake's plane will touch down in just about three minutes."

"Good." Jim smiled, feeling a sudden sense of déjà vu—certain he and Barney Collier had done this exact thing sometime before.

Grant saw Jim pause to stare at him while folding his coat over his forearm. He wondered, not for the first time, what Jim saw when he looked at him. His father, when persuaded to speak about work, spoke mostly of Jim Phelps, of his skills as the team's mastermind, and of his friendship. Grant had only actually met Jim Phelps once. Though just ten years old he was already smart enough to realize his father and Phelps were involved in more than international business.

Briefly, Grant wondered when Jim and his father had last been in contact with each other. He himself hadn't seen or heard from his father in months. He wasn't even sure if his father had heard of Tom Copperfield's death, or of his own son's assignment to Jim's team. But those were questions he'd have to worry about later. Right now, things were about to get busy.

Grant turned his attention back to the computer. "Twenty five minutes," he said to Jim. "That's all I'll need once he hits his cab."

Jim dropped his coat onto one of the tables as Grant turned up the volume on the scanner to his right. The squawking voice from the box clarified why Grant had suddenly turned it up. They were listening for the movements of the taxi cabs going to and from the airport. The dispatcher was one of their London supporters. As requested, she was sending a majority of the drivers away from the airport, giving Drake limited choices on the ones he could take.

* * *

Max Harte leaned casually against the door of his appropriated taxi, looking menacing and in desperate need of a fare all at once. He maintained the casual pose effortlessly while marking every face that emerged from the airport's main doors.

He growled at anyone who approached him for a lift—they'd have to find other ways to get where they were going. He was saving his ride for Mathew Drake.

Max had met Tom Copperfield briefly, twice. He'd liked the man. He'd heard good things about the way he lead missions and, like most IMF agents, was fairly impressed with some of the jobs he'd pulled. For Max, catching the killer of a fellow IMF agent made this personal enough on its own, but knowing the man had been the pseudo-son of Jim Phelps got Max doubly invested. As pleased as Max was to work with a leader like Phelps, he hated the circumstances that had brought it about.

He'd never been one to take defeat or loss easily, particularly when it involved someone he cared about. He wasn't one to let things like that go—not if there was something he could do about it.

When he saw the murderer finally emerge from the airport, he had to consciously wash the contempt from his face.

He watched Drake stroll to a telephone booth, heedless of Max's stare as he carelessly tore a page from the anchored telephone book. When Drake dropped his head Max allowed himself one last vindictive smile in his direction. "You're finished, Drake," he whispered, but by the time Drake looked up from folding his torn phone page, all he saw was a muscled cabbie, desperate for a fare.

Sure enough, Drake walked toward him. Max abandoned his casual lean, stepping out toward Drake and then to the back door of his car. He yanked it open with a jaunty, "Cab, sir?"

Drake stared at him, giving Max the impression of a spider staring down a fly. "No thanks," he answered. With a cold smile, he shifted directions, fluidly moving to the next cabbie down the line.

"Hey!" Max shouted. "I'm the first cab in line. You've got to ride with me!"

Drake gave him the spidery look again, peering at Max as though he were a too-skinny fly, not worth the spider's effort, dismissing him without comment.

Max watched as Drake stepped up to the window of the second cab. Though now some distance away he distinctly heard him ask the driver, "Say, do you know where the Raeburn is?"

Max smiled sardonically as Nicholas popped his head up at Drake's question—the glasses on his nose, the pencil in his mouth, and the papers in his lap giving him the absolute appearance of distracted and aloof. "The Raeburn?" said Nicholas, taking the pencil out of his mouth and reaching for the ripped paper Drake handed him, blinking his eyes as though trying to place where he'd heard the name before.

Despite the morning's unexpected disasters, Max felt confident in their plan. A smile snuck up to his lips. Nicholas was good. Nicholas was _very_ good.

"_Oh_, the Raeburn Hotel in Kensington." Nicholas nodded with a self-deprecating shrug, acting as though he should have recognized the name right off. He stepped out of the car with an easy smile. "Sure, I know where it is." Nicholas moved around the front of his own car. "As a matter of fact, I took this nice lady there last week."

Max slipped around his car and into his cab's driver's seat, continuing to watch Nicholas and Drake with a slightly giddy smirk. _Step into __my__ parlor, said the spider to the fly._

Drake was already opening the backdoor. "Spare me the details. I'm in a hurry."

Nicholas stepped quickly in front of him, cutting off Drake's access to the door handle, opening it for him instead. "Ah, please," he protested. "Let me get that for you, sir. Can I take your bags?"

"I can manage," Drake intoned, annoyed and sounding like a man who annoyed easily.

That could work for them.

"The Raeburn it is," Nicholas said loudly, ensuring Grant would pick up the transmission from his hidden communicator. He shut the door for Drake, and as he crossed back to the driver's side, he threw Max a small smile.

_Welcome to our parlor said the spiders to the fly,_ Max thought again, grinning. _Make no mistake, Drake, __we__ are the spiders here._

_

* * *

_

"Alright you heard it—the Raeburn," said Jim.

Grant's fingers flashed across the keyboard as Jim walked to look over his shoulder. In seconds the information they wanted was splayed out before them. "The Raeburn Hotel," read Grant, "Sixteen Craven Hill." He looked up at Casey's questioning glance. "R-A-E-B-U-R-N," he spelled.

Casey immediately set to work, pulling out the magnetic lettering she would need for the hotel's street sign and front desk.

From Grant's communicator they heard Drake ask Nicholas, "How long will it take to get to the hotel?"

"Depends on traffic," Nicholas answered smoothly, epitomizing the voice of a tired cabbie who dealt with traffic all too often. "Twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes."

"The phonebook says fifteen," snarked Drake. "Now if you can't do it in that, I've got to find a cabbie who can."

"Hey," Nicholas protested indignantly, "if any cabbie can get you there in fifteen minutes, _I _can."

The car's motor jumped as Nicholas started it and pulled into traffic. They knew Max would already be pushing ahead of him, preparing to stall in any way he could.

"Fifteen minutes, Jim," lamented Grant, standing up from his desk and pulling his jacked from the back of his chair in one smooth movement. "It's just not enough time." He moved hastily to the door.

"We don't have a choice," Jim gestured, Grant's concern echoing in his own voice. "We have to make it work."

* * *

While Nicholas made his way toward the hotel with a nervous Drake twittering in the backseat, Grant was busy hanging Casey's hastily made _Raeburn Hotel_ sign above the front door. Max was breaking speed limits and changing into a cop's uniform while he drove. Tim Conner was tracking Nicholas's progress on the large computerized map linked to Grant's main computer, and Jim was completing the replacement names for the streets outside.

All were praying they'd be ready in time.

When Grant finished hanging the hotel sign, he checked Casey's progress in the lobby, then moved back into the war room to check on Jim. As he entered, the bleeping spot on his computerized map confirmed what he already feared. "We'll never be ready at the pace he's going," he told Jim. It wasn't a complaint, just the truth.

Jim glanced back at the map. "Max will do what he can, but Drake's insistence he be here in fifteen minutes probably means he has to make the phone call to get his assignment. If we slow him down too much, he's libel to bolt."

Grant accepted Jim's statement as truth also. They'd just have to do the best they could and hope Drake didn't get spooked by the gaps in their décor.

Jim handed him the completed street signs. Grant took them carefully, double checking for errors while nearly running to put them in place. From the corner of his eye he saw Tim Conner open the glass burner, pulling out an elegant goblet with an elaborate "R" now cresting its side.

In all, it took Grant less than five minutes to get outside, set the step ladder, and place the new street signs. When he got back inside, Casey had finished much of the lobby and had moved on to Drake's bedroom, apparently having to reset the bugs, not realizing they too had been affected by the mornings blown wires—_as if they didn't have enough to do already._

He wasn't going to give in just yet. He had great confidence in this team. If it could be done, they would do it, and maybe even make it with time to spare.

* * *

Casey moved rapidly around the room they'd selected for Drake. She set new towels in the bathroom, arranging the newly embroidered R's ornately on the towel racks, adding other finishing touches as she slipped from area to area, her mind all business. She was almost finished when she realized that morning's camera problems had included the hidden scope in the bedroom mirror. Alerting the others to the problem, she quickly set to work.

Abandoning her current decorating endeavors, she retrieved a repaired camera from Conner and set about placing it behind the two-way mirror. Tilting it to face her she spoke aloud to test the audio. "All set, Jim."

She stepped back, waiting.

"Casey, give me a level." Jim's voice came from the communicator clipped to her waist.

She smiled in relief as she stared into the mirror, picturing Jim's serious face looking back at her. She felt unable to resist. "Mirror Mirror on the wall," she lightly intoned.

"Alright, you'd better finish off in there," Jim instructed.

She could hear the smile in his voice, however faint. "Just another minute," she answered, completely back to business.

* * *

Jim watched Casey a moment longer to ensure the video and audio feed were indeed working. When both were confirmed, and seemed unlikely to blow out on them again, he turned back to the map, checking Nicholas and Drake's progress. They were getting much too close—they still needed more time.

He wasn't prepared to panic yet, however. Max was still out there, ready to get in Nicholas's way.

Jim turned up the audio on the communication speaker and sat down to hear how Max and Nicholas handled themselves. He believed that both could, but couldn't fight the nagging worry in his stomach that reminded him the two agents would be in close association with a killer they'd be purposely annoying—a killer who was known best for his unpredictable actions and his affinity for violence.

* * *

Nicholas drove fast, going just enough over the speed limit to convince Drake he'd picked the right cabbie for a hasty trip. So far, Drake seemed relatively content, which was good, but Nicholas was gritting his teeth because he knew he wasn't giving his teammates the time they needed for Drake's arrival.

_Where are you, Max?_

As he rounded the next corner, his question was answered. Max had made it to the exact spot he was supposed to. Nicholas felt a wave of gratitude. Once confirming it really was Max he saw, he punched his gas pedal a little harder, zooming the cab past the cars building themselves into a traffic-jam on the other side of the street.

A siren sprung to life behind him. He glanced into the rearview mirror, watching Drake's annoyed realization that the siren was meant for them. Nicholas dropped his foot off the pedal, gifting Drake with a repentant shrug. "Oh now what?" he said aloud, making himself sound as antsy and anxious as Drake looked. "I guess I put my finger in it a bit," he apologized, working his London accent overtime. It was one of his favorites. "But don't worry, I'll bluff my way out of it."

Drake said nothing.

Nicholas pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped, watching in his rear view mirror as Max slowly stepped off his commandeered police motorcycle. In the patrolman's uniform he wore—complete with helmet and dark glasses, he was barely recognizable, even to Nicholas.

He swaggered unhurriedly to the cab window, slowly pulling off his gloves. Nicholas almost couldn't withhold the grin—Max was good. His fellow agent had to have double timed it to get changed and get in place, but was managing to look like the poster boy of habitually slow, unhurried, traffic cops.

"Can I see your license, sir?" he asked laconically.

"Why not, sir," answered Nicholas, digging in his wallet for the appropriate document. "Did I do something wrong?"

Max leaned down in the window. "You were going twenty miles over the speed limit."

"Twenty miles?" Nicholas blurted indignantly.

Max responded with a slow nod.

Glancing again at Drake in the rearview mirror, Nicholas pretended to change his tactics, he slumped closer to the window and spoke to Max in a soft, supplicating voice, "Listen, officer, this fare of mine is in a bit of a hurry. You see I picked him up at Heathrow—"

"Could I just see your license, please, sir?" Max cut him off flatly.

"Would you have a heart, mate?" Nicholas returned—exasperated.

"Just get it over with," ordered Drake from the back. "I'll pay you what the ticket costs."

Nicholas nodded, defeated, pulling out his license and handing it to Max with a bitter shrug. "Lousy cops," he muttered, unaware that back in the war room Jim Phelps was trying not to smile at their byplay. "I mean, how do you make a living these days?"

Max handed him a clipboard and he signed where Max pointed. "Thank you, sir," Max stated.

Nicholas gave him a _yeah whatever_ look in return.

As Max ambled back to his bike with the license and clipboard—at an achingly slow pace—Nicholas shrugged helplessly at Drake.

* * *

In the war room, Jim let his smile disappear, waiting in concern for Max to give his take on the situation.

"Drake looks nervous," reported Max over his communicator. "I'll hold him as long as I can."

Jim glanced at his watch and then up at Grant who, aided by Conner, was busy making _Raeburn_ labels for the lobby's desktop magazines and reference books.

Sensing Jim's gaze, Grant looked up from what he was doing and focused on the speaker to hear what was going on with his fellow agents.

"I know you're in a hurry," Nicholas was saying to Drake. "I'm sorry about this."

"Ah, keep it going, Nick," Grant encouraged aloud, as though Nicholas could hear him. "We need the minutes, pal."

Jim nodded at Grant's words, still listening to the speaker intently—hoping Grant's encouragement, as well as his own, was somehow carried through.

"What is the holdup?" they heard Drake complain. "Why is he taking so long?"

* * *

tbc


	7. Chapter Six

**Episode One: Killer**

**Chapter Six**

* * *

"What is the holdup?" Drake snapped. "Why is he taking so long?"

Nicholas grimaced. He was starting to get a bit nervous. They could only push this for so long before they lost the bird they were trying to cage. He hoped Jim was picking up on it. "I don't know," he said in response to Drake's irritated query. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"I'm going to find myself another cab," Drake stated.

Nicholas cringed—_hurry, Max, hurry_. Aloud, he begged, "Would you have a heart? I need the fare." He implored Drake with his eyes, hoping the books stacked on the front passenger seat had successfully given him the look of struggling night student. Not that he expected a man like Drake to have actual sympathy for anyone.

After a moment, Drake sat back with a forced nod but Nicholas had the feeling his consent had more to do with the lack of other cabs on the street than from any sympathy he might feel for his own supposed need of a fare.

* * *

Jim breathed in relief when he didn't hear Drake getting out of the car. Mentally, he applauded Nicholas for his skills.

"The room is set, Jim," called Casey, coming down the back stairway on the far side of the war room.

"Thanks, Casey," he acknowledged.

Over the speaker, he heard Drake say, "I'm not going to wait much longer, you know."

Jim knew it was true. He lifted his communicator to his lips. "Better move, Max."

"Right," came the instant reply. He could imagine Max just waiting for permission to bail Nicholas out of the tensing situation. He flashed on the sudden image of Max as a very controlled pit-bull, waiting only for the word to attack. The people who'd kept his brother in a POW camp probably never knew what hit them.

Shaking the visual from his mind, Jim refocused on the activity in the cab.

* * *

Nicholas sighed in relief when Max started back towards him. His face was grim as Max handed him the clipboard with a silent nod. "You think you'd be out catching crimps instead of bothering honest working people," Nicholas complained as Max pointed to where Nicholas's additional signature was needed.

He ripped the fake ticket free and handed it through the window. Nicholas seized it crossly out of his hands.

"Drive carefully next time, sir," Max advised in a droll voice.

Nicholas simply nodded, reaching out for the return of his license as Max started to walk away. After three steps, Max turned and handed the license in to Nicholas, "Sorry, sir."

Nicholas snapped it out of his hands briskly, starting the car with a frustrated fervor that didn't feel entirely pretend.

* * *

As the car bolted away, Max walked back to the motorcycle, muttering to Jim, "I tired to hold him as long as I could."

"We need more time, Max," Jim confirmed, "seven minutes."

Groaning, Max swung onto the motorcycle and shot off toward the next stopping point.

* * *

"All the cameras are set, and the microphone is under the front desk," reported Grant from the doorway.

"Nicholas is doing what he can. Let's just hope Max can get to the next point before they do."

Grant nodded.

Conner stepped up to pass Grant the new sign-in book for their hotel guests. "Only the best for the Raeburn," he quipped.

"Talk about how to impress," bantered Grant, carrying the book promptly out front.

* * *

Max pushed the police bike as fast as it could go, feeling adrenaline feed his system as he swerved in and out of traffic. He cut through two side streets and rode the sidewalk down another before finally pulling into an underground parking garage. There was no way Nicholas would beat him to the next point—_he hoped_. Even so, he yanked the sunglasses off his head and ran full out for his waiting truck.

* * *

Casey pulled open Grant's mechanized engraver. It was the same machine they'd used to print the front desk book covers. She pulled several dark-wood _Raeburn_ labeled key chains out of it carefully. Clipping room keys to the wood as fast as possible, she checked Nicholas's progress on the map anxiously. He was almost to the second point.

"Jim," she called, pulling him back from the front desk, knowing he'd want to monitor what was happening in the cab.

* * *

Nicholas was driving fast, but not as fast as he'd been driving before. He almost hit another traffic jam but cut across a side street, telling Drake he knew a short cut while complaining that traffic was getting worse all over the city. In the backseat Drake said nothing—simply sat looking both snide and petulant.

Turning down another side street, Nicholas hoped again that Max had made it to position in time. Sure enough, just in front of them, a large truck backed across the street, cutting off their exit. Nicholas pulled the cab up to the truck just in time to hear Max choke out the engine. "Looks like they've stalled," he commented.

Drake said nothing, but the frustrated look he gave Nicholas evidenced his murderous nature.

"Oh, come on, come on!" Nicholas groaned aloud. He leaned out the window, shouting, "Come on, would you move it!" He could barely see Max's silhouette in the truck's cab. "MOVE IT, will ya?" he shouted again.

Max made an angry gesture with his hand out the window and grinded the engine a bit.

"I told you I was on a tight schedule," iced Drake from the back.

"Give me a break," Nicholas complained in response. "What do you want me to do? You want me to drive through it?"

"Look, I've got to get to a phone booth, so either back up or I'm going to get out here."

Nicholas shifted to reverse. Right on cue, two of their London affiliates pulled a large blue garbage truck into the street behind them, boxing them in. Nicholas stopped short his reverse, turning around to look dumbfounded at the truck, as though he couldn't understand how his luck had turned so bad. "Blast! What's this now?" he moaned.

Drake's look was growing icier by the second. Nicholas decided to attempt the misery-loves-company approach. "Can you believe this?" he asked. He knew before he finished that Drake wasn't going for it.

"This is ridiculous. I'm getting out."

"No, no, no. Hey!" cried Nicholas as Drake reached for the door. "I told you I'd get you there." Drake sat back as Nicholas pulled the wheel to the right, guiding the car onto the sidewalk and around the back of Max's truck, mentally apologizing to Jim for not being able to stall for more time.

Max stepped out of his truck, watched from the corner of the building as Nicholas pulled away, then ran back into the parking garage while pushing the button on his communicator. "Jim, I couldn't hold them any longer—we almost lost him." He swung back onto the motor bike, gunning the engine.

He waved to the London agents as he rode out of the parking garage and sped back toward the hotel.

* * *

Having listened to the exchange over the speaker, Jim knew both Nicholas and Max had done the best they could. "No more time," he said aloud, crossing over to the coat rack so he could fit his blazer.

"Are we ready?" asked Casey, as she and Grant neared the finish of their current projects.

"We're about to find out," said Jim.

Together, the three moved out of the war room. Jim took his place standing behind the front desk while Casey and Grant ran upstairs.

Through the opaque glass-front window, Jim watched Nicholas pull up outside.

* * *

"I'm sorry it took a little longer than fifteen minutes," said Nicholas, stopping the car in front of the hotel.

A London agent, acting as doorman, stepped up to the car to open the door for Drake.

"Ah, forget it," Drake sneered fiercely, stepping out of the car and yanking his bags with him. "You know, you ought to do yourself a favor and keep your big mouth shut!" he added through the window, throwing his fare in at Nicholas then snapping away without a backwards glance.

_Ouch_, though Nicholas merrily as he pocketed the money with a smile. _I guess he didn't like me trying to talk my way out of Max's ticket. _He watched Drake enter and hoped the others were ready for him.

* * *

Jim Phelps gave the illusion of busy by fiddling with the hotel room keys and the boxes they belonged to, making himself appear completely oblivious to the arriving guest.

"Good morning," Drake clipped precisely, calling the deskman's attention.

Jim spun toward him as though he hadn't heard him come in. "Oh sorry! Good morning, sir," he greeted in a subdued but jaunty British accent.

"I'd like to have a room, please," said Drake.

"A room—yes, we have one of our very best available—room twelve," he answered, moving back to the room boxes to pull out the key.

"I'd like to pick my own," Drake stopped him pointedly.

"I beg your pardon?" Jim glanced back at him, the oddness of the request showing in his face. Inwardly, he was pleased, knowing his team was ready for this. Pleased even more so that Drake—for all his unpredictable behavior—was still, in fact, predictable. Casey and Grant were waiting and listening, ready to put whatever number on the door Drake requested.

"I'd like to pick my own," Drake repeated. Jim watched him glance around, eyes settling on one of the tour brochures Casey placed in the front rack. On one of them, a large number seven was printed across the top. "Uh, say…how 'bout room seven?" Drake requested.

"Room seven?" Jim clarified, returning the room twelve key to its box and moving to the one that said seven. They were all the same to him, every key printed would open Drake's door. "Yes, I do believe you're in luck," he said, pulling the identical key out of the box. "Room seven is available." He picked up a hotel registration sheet and handed it to Drake. It would give Casey and Grant the short time they needed to change the numbers on the doors. "If you'll just fill out the registrar here."

Drake took the sheet without comment and started filling in the blanks.

As Jim watched he felt the sticky incompleteness of his nightly dream return, accompanied by a sudden and sincere desire to do violence. A desire he rarely allowed himself to feel no matter what the circumstance. For a moment, he saw himself reaching across the desk and laying Drake flat out on the bar.

He held his breath, attempting to banish the image from his mind, attempting to avoid the temptation, glowering at Drake while the other man's head was down. If Drake were to look up right then, there was no way he would mistake the intent in Jim's eyes.

Recognizing this, the seasoned agent forced a smile and rang the bell on the counter to his left. The loud sound cut through the haze of anger in his mind, refocusing him on his task.

Drake looked up questioningly when he heard the bell.

Jim dismissed the curiosity with a tight smile, gesturing to Tim Conner as he stepped toward them dressed like a bell hop. "If you would just show this gentlemen to room seven, please," said Jim as he held the key out to Tim.

"Sir," said Tim, taking the key. Then turning to Drake added, "If you'd like to follow me, sir?" while picking up his bags.

"Enjoy your stay, sir," said Jim as Drake strolled after Tim.

"Yeah, thanks," Drake muttered, as though bothered with the subtleties of polite interaction.

Jim watched him intensely until he was out of view, burning anger prickling along the surface of his skin. He leaned his hands onto the counter before him and dropped his head with a silent moan. Sucking in air, he pushed off the front desk, turned, triggered the hidden door behind the boxes and escaped into the war room.

He couldn't close the door on the lobby fast enough, and once it shut he pushed against it a bit more, as if he could shut out the very existence of Matthew Drake and Scorpio.

Team leaders shouldn't act this way. It had been a while since he'd led a team, but he was pretty sure that letting anger overtake you was still against the rules.

_"We were pretty lucky on that last one, don't you think?" Barney Collier laughed as he said it, leaning his forearms across the railing of Tom's new deck patio, watching the sun set into the ocean._

_"What we were went way beyond lucky!" contradicted Jim, thinking of some of the missions they'd pulled through the years. Half the time—most of the time—the plans he came up with never worked like they should and yet they remained one of the most successful teams of IMF—ever. He glanced through the open patio door, watching Tom as he and two other agents shifted furniture and unloaded boxes into Tom's new place._

_"Yep, we sure had someone watching out for us." Barney said, noticing Jim was watching Tom._

_"We had __us__ watching out for us," said Jim._

_"That too," Barney agreed and kept watching Jim watch Tom. "Time to pass things to a new generation?"_

_"I guess," Jim answered slowly, finally turning to look out at the ocean._

_"You're worried?"_

_"I shouldn't be, I guess." Jim shrugged. "But, I admit, I don't want anything to happen to him."_

_"He's young," said Barney and Jim thought no truer statement had ever been made._

_"If I'd worried like this as a team leader, we never would have got the job done."_

_"Wrong, Jim." Barney violently shook his head. "We got the job done because you worried like this."_

_"I wish I knew the people he'll be working with better," Jim said, dropping his head in his hands._

_"He'll find his own team. He'll learn," said Barney._

_"Jim?" Jim turned to see Tom watching him from the patio door. "Are you alright?"_

"Are you all right?"

Jim turned his head, expecting to see Tom behind him, but the keen eyes regarding him were brown, not blue. Nicholas. Jim hadn't even noticed him in the room. The young agent must have made good time getting around through the back door.

He dropped his head, shoved off the wall, and walked toward Grant's desk, feeling Nicholas follow him with his eyes, feeling the now familiar stickiness follow him as well. The feeling was wearing. It made Jim feel old—weary and old.

"I wonder if I've been away from this too long," he mused aloud, pondering how Nicholas Black would handle hearing the private conjectures of a former legend.

Nicholas didn't say anything. He took several steps closer, as though to hear whatever else Jim had on his mind, expression open. His silence holding neither surprise nor condemnation.

"I wanted to kill him," Jim confessed. "I wanted to reach across the counter and grab him by the throat."

"He killed your best friend, Jim." Nicholas didn't blink or fidget with pity when he said it. His voice was blunt, as open and raw as Jim felt. "No one's going to fault you on that emotion."

Jim nodded. He'd told something similar to Tom once. _"Emotion doesn't make you weak—only denying it does—that's when it can tell you what to do with it, instead of the other way around."_

Anything more Nicholas or Jim might have said was cut off by Tim's voice coming from the hallway camera monitor. "Here we are, sir." The two agents looked down at the video feed to see Tim letting Drake into his room. Jim pushed a button, switching their view to the bedroom camera as soon as Tim and Drake entered. "All set," Tim was saying. "Hope you enjoy your stay."

"Alright," said Jim, watching Drake with hatred but finally feeling his anger hit a more even keel. "The trap's been set. Let's spring it."

* * *

tbc


	8. Chapter Seven

**Episode One: Killer**

**Chapter Seven**

_

* * *

_

_Nicholas tossed his false beard and mustache aside, leaning forward with forearms balanced on knees, waiting to hear what Tom Copperfield was going to say next._

_The darkened theater felt filled with caution, the guarded heir of silence. Tom's face fell half in shadow. The physical display illustrating the enigma Tom Copperfield presented to Nicholas Black at that moment. Nicholas saw one side of Tom, knew one portion of him. The rest was… hidden in shadow._

_"Why do you think you can trust me?" Nicholas finally asked. "You don't even know me."_

_"I've read your file," said Tom._

_"Not the same thing," he countered._

_Something flashed in Tom's eyes. Recognition? Appreciation? Nicholas wasn't sure what exactly it was, or what emotion the fleeting expression alluded to. He cocked his head to the side, trying to see Tom more clearly._

_Tom looked down, scuffling his left foot along the plank floorboards of the production set, saying nothing, looking severely unlike anything Nicholas would have ever imagined him to be. Whatever brought Copperfield here must indeed be serious._

_Nicholas was trying to formulate another question when Tom finally spoke. "Knowing someone and trusting someone _isn't_ always the same thing, is it?"_

_The question was rhetorical. Nicholas said nothing. _

_"I've always worked alone, even when I'm working with a team, in some ways, I'm still working alone. The only other agent I've really trusted was—"_

_"James Phelps," Nicholas finished for him. It wasn't as if Tom's relationship to Jim was a mystery to the rest of IMF. Nicholas understood it, envied it even. But it still didn't explain what Tom was doing here. "That's a tiring way to work," he said simply._

_Tom nodded, a small crack breaking his façade. "It is. It's the one thing Jim still lectures me about. It's stupid, I know, but what we do… the way we work… for years I've been waiting for someone to betray me, waiting to miss an angle and have the weaknesses I use against others used against me."_

_Nicholas stayed silent, now understanding fully the weariness he saw in Tom's shoulders, and in his face._

_Tom met his gaze, keen eyes sparkling softly in the dim studio lighting. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, matching Nicholas's pose, face now fully out of shadow, appearing relieved to have said it out loud. Appearing, in some way, relieved of the burden he'd walked in with. As if he'd come across the country to talk to Nicholas for this reason alone. To confess this one… paranoia._

_Maybe he had, Nicholas suddenly realized._

_Maybe he had._

* * *

Still in the war room, Nicholas moved over to the voice recorder Grant had set up for him and popped in the disk Jim gave him. They were working so smoothly together—flawlessly, seamlessly. Contemplating his teammates, Nicholas didn't feel the slightest hesitation of trust with any of them.

What must it have been like for Tom to always question the motives of the members on his team? Nicholas couldn't imagine working that way. Though he could work alone, he never preferred it. If you took the other people out of it, for Nicholas, the job they did suddenly lost meaning.

He blinked away his running thoughts, setting himself to focus on the task at hand, determined to come through for his teammates in every way possible. He pressed play on the machine in front of him and listened. It was a recording of Drake's brief conversation with Jim at the front desk. He picked one sentence from the recording and set it to loop. While in the cab, he'd already heard Drake's voice quite a lot. It wouldn't take him long to perfect it.

"_I'd like to pick my own room_," the disk repeated twice.

Nicholas paused the player and repeated the sentence aloud, copying only the cadence of the voice at first—adding more of Drake's intonation when he voiced it again. He was aware, somewhere in his mind, that Jim was behind him, checking his progress, perhaps checking how well he'd really be able to do this—wanting to see, as Tom Copperfield had, if he was as good as his file claimed.

"Sounds good," he heard Jim say confidently, shifting from observing Nicholas and back to monitoring Drake.

"No," Nicholas admitted while Jim walked away. "I think it needs a little more base."

_

* * *

_

_"I hope you're comfortable,"_ Tim-the-bellhop could be heard saying to Drake.

With one ear still monitoring Nicholas's progress, Jim took a position standing between Grant and Casey—whose eyes hadn't left the monitor since coming back to the war room. Grant tilted the screen slightly, allowing Jim a better view.

"If there's anything else you need, sir, please don't hesitate to give us a call." Tim handed Drake his room key.

"Thank you," Drake replied, sounding bored, passing Tim the customary tip.

"Thank you, sir," Tim finalized, leaving quickly.

_This is it_, thought Jim. Drake would make his call now and they'd have him. He could feel his anticipation rise as Drake walked to the phone on the nightstand and picked it up. From the corner of his eye he saw Grant check the status of their planted wire, noting it activated automatically when Drake picked up the phone.

"Come on," Jim encouraged aloud when the assassin visibly hesitated. "Damn." He slapped the back of the chair he'd been leaning on when Drake put the phone down again.

Grant and Casey exchanged looks.

"He's leaving the room," Jim observed, already moving himself toward his position at the front desk.

"As long as he misses the phone in the lobby, we're set," reminded Nicholas, knowing the lobby phone to be Drake's least likely choice. With their complications of the morning, they'd not been able to get a bug planted in that one.

Jim grunted in agreement, moving quickly in order to beat Drake. He shut the secret door on the others, picked up a prop stack of mail and feigned boredom as he flipped slowly through the envelopes. He was just in time to hear Drake's rubber-soled shoes trotting down the stairs.

As Nicholas predicted, with Jim at the desk, Drake gave the lobby telephone a miss, barely glancing at it before continuing on outside. Jim took cautious breaths while watching him exit, hoping he wouldn't stray too far. The minute the front door closed behind him, Jim clicked on his communicator. "Max, do you have him?" he asked.

From his discrete position as a window washer across the street, Max watched Drake jog lightly down the hotel's front steps and stroll briskly to the adjacent phone booth. Max moved the digitalized sound amplifier out from under his arm, aiming it covertly. "Right on target, Jim," he answered.

Jim moved back into the hidden war room just in time to hear the phone being dialed through the amplifier. Seeing him enter, Grant turned up the volume. He again took a standing position behind the camera monitor, this time slipping casually between Casey and Nicholas, resting a hand on the back of each of their chairs as they all leaned in to hear the impending conversation.

Grant had already shifted their monitor's view to the outside camera and though the angle was irregular they could clearly make out Drake standing in the phone booth. As he dialed, Grant's tracer displayed the punched numbers on the screen they were watching.

The plan was working. They were still ahead in this game. Even with the glitches, everything was working out just fine.

"I'm waiting for a friend to call." A woman's sophisticated voice echoed through the amplifier.

"This is the friend from California," Drake responded.

"You're late," huffed the voice, some of the sophistication replaced with annoyance. "I nearly wasn't here."

"It couldn't be helped," snapped Drake. "Do you have something for me?"

"Yes," she replied laconically.

"Alright, where do we meet?"

"City Botanical Gardens, by the river," she answered.

Grant nodded at Jim's questioning glance—indicating he'd already locked in the address.

"Be there at noon," Drake ordered.

"How will I find you?"

Drake's eyes followed a bus as it drove by—focusing on an elegant flower printed across its side. "Wear a white rose and I'll find you," he answered, then hung up.

Jim checked his watch while Nicholas quickly grabbed the phone. "That's a little more than an hour," Jim said, knowing this meant their original plan might not work.

"Maybe we can still catch her," said Nicholas, already dialing the phone.

Jim Phelps waited, leaned down further onto the back of his chair as the phone started to ring. He hoped Nicholas could pull this off. "Hello?" answered the same sophisticated voice, edged with a touch of confusion.

"It's me again. Your friend from California," said Nicholas. Jim almost did a double take to make sure it really was Nicholas sitting in front of him and not Drake. The voice was a perfect match. Jim had worked with several agents extremely capable of voice impersonation—Rollin and Paris from his own previous team were both masterful imitators—but overall, there were few who could replicate a voice as neatly and quickly as Nicholas just had.

"What now, decided we don't like white roses?" the woman asked in bitingly bored annoyance.

"Decided I didn't want to wait so long for the information," clipped Nicholas with Drake's voice.

Casey and Jim could both sense the woman's confusion through the beat of silence that followed. "Look, that's the way I work," said Nicholas adding a touch of menace. He met Jim's eyes as if to reassure him that he wouldn't blow this, the complete calm he projected telling the team leader he knew just how much to push.

"Where then?" the woman asked.

Jim let his head drop approvingly.

"At my hotel—the Raeburn. Do you know where that is?" Nicholas asked, hoping she didn't.

"No."

_Thank goodness_, thought Jim.

"It's near the corner of Long Bridge Street and Military Rd," Nicholas informed, rattling off their actual address smoothly. "I'm in room eight."

"I can find you."

"Be here in thirty minutes. And, forget the white rose," he finished snidely, cutting the connection.

Jim tapped Nicholas's shoulder in appreciation. "Let's go," he ordered, unnecessarily. The agents were already on the move.

* * *

Grant jogged quickly out the back door and down to the street corner. He snapped the ladder he carried with him into place and smoothly removed the fake signs they'd used to manipulate Drake. He hoped when Drake left he wouldn't feel the need to double check his location.

Back in the war room, Jim helped Casey set up the recording they'd taken of the woman's voice. It was a bit grainy—having come from the amplifier—but it would suffice. He set one sentence to loop just as their team impersonator had done with Drake's voice, then looked up to check on Nicholas's progress, knowing Casey might need his help before she'd be ready.

Behind the provisional sheeting on the far side of the room, Nicholas emerged, free of his cabbie clothing, now wearing a Drake-like suit, excepting the jacket and tie.

Jim waved him over, helping him slip into the suit jacket while Casey played the tape, letting it loop twice. Nicholas threaded the tie Jim held out to him around his neck, tying it while he listened. Casey stopped the loop and repeated the sentence aloud, imitating the voice as much as she could, "What now? Have you decided you don't like white roses?"

"I think the resonance should be a little higher," Nicholas advised.

Satisfied with their progress, Jim moved back to watch Drake.

Still fiddling with his tie and listening to Casey, Nicholas followed him, watching the monitor while accepting the tie pin Grant handed him. Clipping it, he moved back over to Casey.

Jim focused on the monitor. Drake was calmly practicing his golf put across the hotel room floor—tapping golf balls into a water glass.

"For a guy who make's his living by killing people," Grant commented, finding Drake's choice of time-killing activity absurd, "—he's certainly relaxed."

"That's what makes him so good," Jim remarked, shaking his head.

Drake leaned his golf club against the wall and checked his watch. Appearing to come to a decision he plucked up his briefcase and started for the door.

"He's leaving early?" wondered Grant.

"He's a careful man," Jim answered. "He probably wants to have a good look at the botanical gardens." He adjusted his own tie and started back towards his front desk position.

"Jim?" Still staring at the monitor—the view now flipped to the outside camera—Grant cut Jim's exit short. "If I'm not mistaken, here comes Drake's lady." She'd clearly been a lot closer to their location than they thought she was.

Nicholas, busy helping Casey pin a white rose onto the dress suit she'd changed into, popped his head up. He looked first at Jim then craned his neck around to Grant, trying to see if he was serious then glanced back again at Jim.

"It's time," Jim said to him, thinking what they were all thinking—_now or never_.

"This is going to be close." Nicholas gripped Casey's shoulders in a quick, encouraging gesture before bolting up the back stairs to room eight.

Jim slipped swiftly into the lobby and Casey—still fiddling with the rose—moved to watch the action on the monitor with Grant.

* * *

Jim made it into position just in time to see a tall, stylish blond walk through the front door.

Tim Conner, still dressed as a bellhop, stepped swiftly to greet her. "Excuse me," she asked him. "Could you tell me where room eight is, please? Mr. Drake's room."

"Yes," Tim answered cordially. "If you turn right at the top of the first flight of stairs you'll find Mr. Drake's room there."

"Thank you." The woman moved to the stairs, starting up just as Drake was starting down.

Watching, Casey and Grant held their breaths when the two passed each other, sighing in relief when no recognition passed between them.

At the top of the back stairs, down the hallway from room eight, Nicholas waited until Drake was out of sight before hastily slipping into his room. The last thing they needed was for Drake to get a glimpse of his airport cabbie hanging around his hotel room.

Moments after Nicholas shut the door he heard a knock. He closed his eyes, taking a second to focus, pushing a Drake-like expression to his face. The best way to not be discovered as a fake was to be as close to the real thing as possible. He could do that. He just had to find the headspace. He drew a deep breath and a bored sneer appeared on his lips as he cracked the door open.

The blond woman outside his doorway bespoke of elegance. Nicholas opened the door wider.

"I'm looking for a friend," said the woman.

"From California?"

She blinked, looked down, and handed him a manila envelope casually. "It's all in there," she said simply, and turned to leave.

"Oh," Nicholas stopped her. "Who pays off when I make the hit?"

"I do," she answered. "As I said, it's all in there. Let me know when it's done."

* * *

Jim Phelps opened the envelope Nicholas handed him, sliding the contents carefully into his hand. A newspaper clipping appeared with a paperclipped, hand written note attached to the back. He turned the clipping right side up, holding it out so the agents gathered around him could see. The picture accompanying the article presented to them a distinguished looking black man.

"So this is the man," Jim said, catching Grant's eye with a meaningful and slightly regretful look.

"Looks like I'm elected," Grant declared with a grin, being the most logical double for the man on Scorpio's hit list.

Jim grunted and started to read the note accompanying the article. "William Breton—President of a California based construction union—will be at the Crown Regent Hotel, room 526. He'll be in his room from 4:30 to 5:00pm today working on a speech. He'll be alone."

"At least we know where he's going to make the hit and when," commented Nicholas.

"As well as who he's going to kill," said Jim with another glance at Grant, a speck of worry rooting in his stomach.

"Let's hope not," said Grant with a reckless smile.

Without further comment he and Nicholas moved away from the other agents. Grant stripped off the windbreaker he'd been wearing and replaced it with a sternly colored suit jacket. Nicholas grabbed their modified digital camera and flipped the desk light toward the large map on the back wall while Grant buttoned the top buttons of his shirt and slipped a previously tied necktie over his head.

Jim fed the article they'd received into the IMF copier—checking to make certain the camera was already connected. He looked up, indicating to Nicholas that he was set, and said, "Camera interlock—ready?"

Grant struck a distinguished pose in front of the map layout as the picture was snapped and automatically transferred to a copy of the newspaper article, overlaying the image of the real William Breton. Jim picked it up as it slid from the machine. Briefly checking it for flaws, he then slid it, and the written note, back into the manila envelope Casey held open for him.

"You're on," he said to her.

The look she threw back flashed confidence. She couldn't mimic voices quite like Nicholas but she could improvise every bit as well.

* * *

The short haired—and thankfully silent—taxi driver let Drake off in front of the botanical gardens, leaving him at the area farthest from the adjacent river. Excessively pleased at the lack of speeding tickets and truck blockades, Drake left the driver a large tip.

When he walked away he dismissed the cab and its driver from his mind. He didn't notice that the driver kept watching him as he carefully evaluated his contact's chosen setting, nor did he notice him lift a communicator to his lips and say, "He's all yours, _Australia_," with a heavy British accent.

"Thanks, _England_," Max replied, overextending his natural accent in response to the London agent's subtle barb, but he grinned, and said sincerely, "Without you London guys, this job would be a lost cause."

"You're welcome," said the cab driver.

Max had changed clothes—again. This time he'd selected a touristy shirt and no hat, blending in easily as he followed his quarry's explorations into the gardens, hanging back enough to not be obvious, but staying close enough to not lose him.

The day was warm, and there were a lot of people to blend in with. Max usually hated crowds. Today he was glad to see the area well populated. Many of the garden goers were dressed just like him. Not once did Drake even glance in his direction.

Nearly thirty minutes later—just before noon—Drake started a gradual stroll down the walk to the river. Max followed carefully, knowing he'd be easier to spot on the less crowded trail. He didn't want to tip his hand, but he wanted to stay close enough to ensure Casey had back-up if she needed it.

He saw her before Drake did—wearing her white rose with a dazzlingly smart looking dress. As much as Max knew Casey wouldn't appreciate it, he couldn't help the rushing wave of protectiveness that surfaced when he saw her. Easing himself down on a nearby park bench, just up the hill from where she stood, he prepared to keep careful watch for the slightest hint of danger.

Drake spotted her, eyes lingering on the white rose and Casey's sleek posture. He trotted slowly down the steps leading to the river, kept his eyes pinned on hers, ignoring the boats bobbing in the river just yards away. "You looking for a friend?" he asked.

"Depends upon where he's from," she answered.

Max innately evaluated her voice as he watched—deciding her impersonation of the woman on the phone was pretty close.

"California do?" Drake asked, still sounding bored.

"That'll do just fine," replied Casey in the same casual manner. She handed him the envelope, eyeing him appraisingly. "So you're the famous man," she said.

Drake's eyes flickered, but he didn't seem interested in pursuing her praise. "And you're Scorpio's messenger," he replied.

Casey smiled, tilting her head brazenly.

Catching her temptingly secretive expression, Drake rapidly changed his mind about pursuing polite conversation. "Well I must say you're the most attractive one I've seen so far."

A couple strolling along blocked Max's view when they stopped. He stood, shifting causally to another bench just a few yards down the walk. Drake didn't seem to notice the movement and Max decided his view of the two had actually improved with the switch, but he'd missed part of the conversation in doing so.

Drake now held the envelope Casey had brought. It was already open and he was looking down at Grant's picture with a slightly confused look on his face.

For a moment Max thought they must have messed up somehow, but quickly he realized Drake wasn't thinking about Grant's clipping at all. Drake pinned Casey with a stern look and said, "You called me the famous man. Why is that?"

"Your last job attracted a lot of attention. Rather spectacular."

Drake frowned.

"That doesn't please you?" Casey asked.

"Look, I work in one of the few businesses where fame is not something one hopes for."

Casey nodded, blatantly unsympathetic.

"Now, the hotel where this guy's staying, how far is it from here?" Drake moved back to business.

"Just under a mile," she answered and even Max could hear her accent slip.

"And when I'm done, who pays?" asked Drake, cocking an eyebrow in her direction.

"Call me. I'll be there." The accent was back in place. Max wondered if Drake had even noticed.

"You know being famous could have its advantages." Casey held out a slip of paper with a phone number.

Drake caught it out of her hand, crinkling it as he said, "You're not the girl I talked to on the phone." He leaned into her.

_Damn_, thought Max, he_ had _noticed. He tensed, ready to take action if Drake pushed, ready to do whatever necessary to keep Casey safe.

He shouldn't have worried.

Casey smiled slyly, unfazed by Drake's discovery. "Should I take that as a compliment?"

Drake watched her face closely and smiled demurely back. The tension left his shoulders. Max felt his own shoulders ease as well. For the moment, the serious and calm Mathew Drake looked embarrassed by his suspicious mind. "Take it anyway you like," he answered her. "I was planning to leave tonight but maybe I'll stay."

_Hook, line, and sinker! Good girl_, Max cheered.

Drake lifted his briefcase and left, walking past Max without so much as a snippet of recognition. Max stood to follow, throwing Casey a brief, impressed smile.

* * *

tbc


	9. Chapter Eight

**Episode One: Killer**

**Chapter Eight**

_

* * *

_

_"Jim? Rollin might be in trouble."_

_"What happened, Barney?"_

_"I'm not sure, but he missed the check in point."_

_"Where's Willy?"_

_"He's gone to the bridge with Tom. They're waiting for your call but they think they can get in and find out where Rollin is without being seen. If things check out, they can slip right back out again."_

_"They have a plan?"_

_"Tom says he does. Jim, they're waiting. What do you want them to do?"_

_"What do you think?"_

_"I think Tom's a natural planner and with Willy to help him they'll be fine."_

_"He's young, Barney."_

_"How young were we when we started this, Jim?"_

_"Alright, we'll have to trust him on this one—Barney, is it just me or are kids getting smarter and smarter?"_

_"Tell me about it. Grant'll be eight this year and he's already twice as smart as I was at his age."_

Jim pulled out of his reverie as he and Nicholas cycloned silently through William Breton's office, checking for bugs, and for any possible hidden access points or openings from the offices next door. They communicated without speaking while they worked—working in such precise synchronization, hidden observers would assume they'd been working together much longer than three days.

_"Jim, Rollin and Casey are in position."_

_"Things look alright?"_

_"Willy got a little banged up but he got Tom out okay. Kid's got good instincts, just needs a little more guidance."_

_"He has a gift for planning," Jim agreed, "Once he starts to better evaluate the team scenario, he'll do better seeing the completeness of the plan. I have no doubt with his own team, he'll do wonders."_

_"You're not growing fond of the kid, are you Jim?" Barney and Rollin both had the tendency to tease, slipping in wry comments when they thought Jim wouldn't expect it._

_"What was it you told me Grant did last Christmas—rewired the Christmas lights so they would blink 'Merry Christmas' in Morse code?"_

_Barney looked at him warily, clearly unsure of where Jim was heading with the comment, but answered anyway, "Yep. Somehow, he ended up cutting into the street main. Every light in the neighborhood blinked 'Merry Christmas' in Morse Code for the next 24 hours. They had to shut down power and reset the whole thing to get life back to normal again." Barney laughed as he remembered._

_"I get the feeling that in a few years, growing pains aside, Grant and Tom will have our jobs and being doing them better than us."_

_"If they do have our jobs," grunted Barney, "Let's hope they will do them better than us. Grant already gives me more grey hair than I deserve."_

"Jim?"

Jim blinked, looked away from the drawer he was checking, and realized Nicholas was speaking to him again. He walked over to see what Nicholas was looking at. The young agent's serious eyes met his as he pulled back a panel in the wall. "There's a crawl space back there, but I think it only leads next door.

"Is it shown in the hotel's building plans?"

"Not directly. They turned the large suites on this floor into split rooms a few years ago, I think. The crawlspace developed from the construction of a new wall that had to be build around the plumbing."

"I'd assume that if we didn't know about it, neither will Drake, but just to be safe let's find something to block any hidden access before we have Grant sitting in here alone."

"The hotel safe," Nicholas said.

Jim nodded in agreement. He walked over to the large metal safe under the desk. It took both of them to shift it in front of the access panel. Nicholas fiddled with it a bit while Jim went back to sweeping the desk.

_"You did good on that one, Tom." Jim felt awkwardly proud. He didn't impress easily but Tom had done well. Unquestionably, exceptionally well._

_Tom's answer was rueful. "If you hadn't thought to cut off access back to the bridge, it would've all fallen apart. I thought them coming from that angle was such a remote possibility, I discounted it."_

_"That's why we work in teams. Even the least likely angles get covered." This was true. Jim had learned it early on. No matter how good they were, mistakes were made and things went wrong. The best teams were barely fazed by the unexpected, pulling together without conscious thought, taking it all in stride, covering each other's backs. Tom would eventually learn that too._

"I think we're secure," Nicholas commented, breaking into Jim's thoughts again. "Drake's not going to have very many choices on how he gets up here."

"Let's hope we've thought of all of them," said Jim.

Grant walked into the office with a grim but undemanding smile, just as Nicholas crossed over to check the vantage points from the window.

Jim fought the urge to watch Nicholas in motion, fighting the urge to look for traces of Tom. But it was a lost cause. He kept seeing him in everything Nicholas did.

"How's Breton?" Jim asked Grant, peeling his eyes away from Nicholas while setting a picture frame back onto the desk, now certain it was free of bugs.

"He's upset," Grant answered easily, lifting his eyebrows. A gesture he'd obviously picked up from his father. With Grant's Barney-like attributes and Nicholas's eerie similarities to Tom Copperfield, Jim felt surrounded by the past. Haunted by it. Ominously close to drowning in it. Its collision with the present was slowly sucking him into an abyss of unknown possibilities. Working with this team had become more than finishing a mission for his lost protégé. Heaven help him, he _liked_ this team—felt connected to them in ways he hadn't planned for.

Grant stopped directly in front of him, every part of him a reflection of Barney, right down to the casual lean he adopted as he said, "It's not every day you find out a professional assassin is out to kill you."

"Will he cooperate?" asked Nicholas from the window.

"He's not happy about it," Grant shrugged in his direction, "but he's agreed to stay out of it till this is all over."

"Alright," Jim accepted. "Now the question is, how will Drake try to kill him?"

"There's a few rooftops out here," said Nicholas. "Give him a clear shot."

"If that's how he's going to make his move, I'll make it easy for him," answered Grant, pulling a suited dummy—closely resembling himself—from the box he and Nicholas had carried up earlier.

"That may be too easy," Jim commented, staring down at the mannequin. "We have to remember this man is unpredictable. There's no telling where he may come from." He had a feeling Nicholas and Grant could hear the worry emerging in his voice, much as he was trying to mute it.

"I'm going to be a couple of doors down the hall," reported Nicholas, accurately reading Jim's concern. They'd need someone close by to give Grant back-up. He moved out the door at Jim's nod, carefully checking the hallway for any possible access as he went.

* * *

Grant moved the dummy to the chair behind the desk, considering how to anchor it.

Jim paused, catching Grant's eye and giving him a meaningful look.

Grant smiled back, trying to look more encouraging than reckless. His father had always told him he had a naturally reckless smile.

From the stern response on Jim's face, Grant conceded to himself that his father was probably right.

* * *

Max was only subtly surprised that Drake chose to walk to Breton's hotel. It made following him both easy and hard. When the crowds thinned out Max had to hang farther back, certain Drake was getting wise to him.

He moved closer as they approached the hotel, jogging up the stairs behind Drake, hoping to get into a flanking position before he crossed the street to the hotel lobby.

Drake was smart, however, and once he reached the top of the stairs leading up from the river walk, his casual stroll turned into a brisk jog. He disappeared behind a tall red double-decker bus parked at the curb. By the time Max bolted across the street after him, he was gone.

All Max knew for certain was that he couldn't have gone into the hotel just yet, at least not by the front doors. They'd been in his view the whole time. He ran down the sidewalk to the corner but didn't find any trace of Drake that way either.

He felt a sudden franticness that he'd not felt on any of his other IMF missions—a franticness that had been dead in him since he'd rescued his brother from Viet Nam.

He didn't want to let Jim down, and he didn't want to lose Tom Copperfield's killer. He wanted to see this man understand the pain he'd caused through his ruthless trade. But mostly, the franticness emerged from the growing, slightly irrational fear that his failure to keep Drake in sight would result in Grant's death, or Nicholas's, or Jim and Casey's.

Imagining any one of them hurt or gone bothered Max intensely.

He clenched his left fist, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand. Pushing out one short breath, he consciously pulled himself back into control and released his fist, shook off the abrupt worry, and forced his mind to think rationally.

The team had known all along that trailing Drake this way would be difficult. They'd known they might lose him and had planned for this contingency. He quickly focused his emotions. "Jim," he spoke into his communicator, "I lost Drake."

* * *

Up in Breton's office, Grant had just finished securing the dummy behind the desk when Jim came back in from his final sweep of the hallway. He'd looked grim ever since Max's announcement but Grant knew it couldn't change the plan. They'd known all along that tracking an elusive and deadly killer would be nearly impossible—even with the deck stacked in their favor.

Max had done the best he could. Grant was certain no agent could have done better. Now they adapted. It's what they were best at.

Grant stood up straight to see Jim looking firm, confident, and nervous, all at once. Abruptly, Grant had the impression that when Jim looked at him he was seeing him as he'd been, not how he was. He was seeing him as the ten-year-old son of the much loved Barney Collier.

Grant sighed. He could tell, even if Jim _wasn't_ seeing him as a ten-year-old boy, he was definitely seeing him through a father's eyes. Grant wasn't stupid enough to think Jim wasn't feeling some sort of responsibility to keep him safe—to keep Barney from suffering the pain of loss Jim suffered when Tom Copperfield was killed.

Tom may not have been Jim's son, but feelings in IMF often ran as deep as family, and in some cases, deeper.

"Alright," Jim addressed him.

Grant fought to keep himself from smiling as he met Jim's firm eyes. He couldn't let any perceived recklessness—real or imagined—creep onto his face. He couldn't give Jim Phelps any reason to take him out of the game.

"Grant—we can call this off."

"Not a chance, Jim," Grant answered quickly—resolutely—meeting Jim Phelps's eyes dead on. If Jim _was_ seeing him as a ten-year-old, Grant was going to force him to see him as the agent he _really_ was instead.

"There's no telling where or how he's going to make the hit," Jim pressed, moving toward him. "This is a big hotel, we can't cover it all."

Grant matched his gaze. "I always like surprises," he quipped, realizing too late that he'd been smiling while he said it.

Jim's frown deepened. The look he gave Grant broke the bounds of austerity—promising Grant hidden amounts of unspeakable torture should he allow himself to be harmed in any way.

Grant knew more smiling was the absolute wrong response to Jim's increased sternness, but the smirk was already there, widening without his say so. What he hoped Jim saw behind it was the seriousness in his eyes. He had chosen this job, was happy to do it, could do it, and had _always_ done it well. Like Jim and like his father, he knew he would be happy doing nothing else, and wouldn't feel right about backing down, no matter how logical.

Besides, even if both Jim and Barney pretended to quit from time to time, Grant knew they'd never really left it behind. They'd never turned their backs when needed and neither would he. He let determination cover his face.

In the end, he wasn't sure _what_ Jim saw, but he finally nodded, austere expression easing. He clasped his hand to Grant's shoulder a bit too firmly then slipped back into the hallway without a backwards glance.

* * *

Jim walked out of the hotel's front doors, still shaking his head at the exchange with Grant in Breton's room. In stubbornness and determination, Grant was the spiting image of his father—right down to the damn unsettlingly reckless smile. But Jim could also see the young man's aptitude. He had no rational reason to stop him from completing his part in their plan.

However, intelligent or not, if the kid took any unnecessary chances Jim would introduce him to a new level of pain and suffering. There was no way he'd let them lose Grant—or any of the others—on this mission. Not now. Not ever. And definitely _not_ to the man who'd killed Tom Copperfield.

From down the street, Max jogged quickly up to Jim's flank. "Sorry I lost him," he said. The simple phrase wasn't just platitude, it cut deep, and Max meant it.

Jim knew Max had done the best he could but was still surprised to see some of his own anxiety reflected back in the young agent's face. Max wouldn't meet his eyes—was instead constantly scanning the crowd, as though Drake would magically reappear. And there was an edginess and energy flitting through Max's muscles that worried and reassured Jim at the same time.

"Yeah," he answered simply. "Still no sign of him?" Jim knew there hadn't been, and likely wouldn't be.

Max didn't respond to that, perhaps knowing Jim already knew the answer and didn't expect it to magically change. Instead Max pulled his communicator out of his shirt pocket saying, "I'll cover the back," before efficiently trotting away.

* * *

Mathew Drake had enjoyed his walk from the botanical gardens and thought he'd like to come back sometime when he could enjoy the atmosphere better. He'd been plagued on his walk by the feeling that he was being watched but had never encountered any proof. He had a tendency toward paranoia when he was on a job, but reasoned that the paranoia is what made him so good.

When he neared his target's hotel, he changed his pace, trying to see if anyone behind him sped up. He saw no one, but the paranoid feeling remained. Spontaneously, he jumped onto the double-decker bus that was just pulling out, riding it a block before jumping down when it slowed at a stop sign.

Again, he saw no evidence being followed, but decided he'd round his way to the hotel's back entrance anyway. He still had time. As long as he was gone quickly after the job was set up, he could take his time getting there.

As he strolled roundabout the hotel, scanning the sidewalk crowd for anything unusual, he passed a "service entry only" sign and changed his mind again. If he were lucky, a service elevator would send him where he wanted to go, and no one in the hotel would see him at all.

Inside, Drake found several laundry carts full of clean linen, ready to be moved onto the service elevators behind them. Not wanting to chance a run in with staff, Drake once again changed his mind, moving instead to the service stairs, trotting slowly up to the fourth floor.

He ran into no one on the way up and no one ran into him. When he knocked on the door of the hotel room just below Breton's and found it empty, he set his final course of action in motion and got to work.

With the handkerchief in his briefcase he picked up the phone and used a pencil to dial the front desk. "Room 526 please," he requested when a woman with a nasal accent asked how she could help him.

* * *

Grant kept himself near the room's walls, moving as little as possible incase a sniper rifle was waiting to take him out through the widow, but his instincts told him Drake probably wouldn't go for that method today.

When the phone rang, he wondered if his instincts were wrong and kept himself low as he crossed in front of windows to answer it. He beeped Jim on the communicator. "Got a call," he told him, "—switching you on." He pressed the button on his communicator that would transmit the call to Jim, then answered the phone.

"Hello."

"Hello, Mr. Breton?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Lou Lawrence. I'm with one of the local trade unions. I was wondering if I might be able to come up and see you for a few minutes."

"What Union did you say?"

"I'm the secretary of the London Construction Union. It'd be a big help to us, Mr. Breton."

"Okay," he answered, in a controlled voice. "What time did you want to come up?"

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Fine," said Grant, checking his watch. "I'll be here."

"Thank you, Mr. Breton."

"You heard it—fifteen minutes," Grant said to Jim.

"He can't be far," Jim answered.

Grant agreed, feeling natural, nervous adrenaline start to fuel his system. He leaned into the corner, away from the view of anyone who might be peeking in the window. He felt a building uneasiness. Fifteen minutes. How was Drake going to do it? There had to be something they hadn't thought of.

* * *

One floor down, Drake was proceeding as quickly as possible. He wanted to be done with this fast, finish his work, and enjoy the rest of the day—maybe spend some time learning more about the flirty redhead Scorpio had used to contact him. She may actually make this trip worth something.

"Yes, _thank you_, Mr. Breton," he sneered aloud and got to work pulling tools from his briefcase. He stood on a chair and cut a hole in the ceiling with one of his own specially designed tools. The hole opened up the empty space remaining between his floor and the next. One blast would take out the whole room—above and below.

The fake golf balls came out of his bag next. He removed them from their plastic wrapping and crushed them together until they formed a clay-like mass.

* * *

Down in front of the hotel, Jim was getting antsy. At least one of them should have caught a glimpse of Drake by now. "Max, anything?" he asked.

"No, nothing yet," Max answered.

* * *

Inside, Drake finished sticking the molding underneath Breton's floor. He popped a hidden timer out of his watch and began to put them together.

* * *

"Anything, Nicholas?" Jim asked. Drake had to already be in the hotel. He and Max must have missed him somehow.

"Not yet, Jim. He's got to show up soon," answered Nicholas, peering into the hallway, feeling more and more like Grant was a sitting duck and that even being just two doors away was too far. The entire floor of the hotel felt quiet. Nicholas risked opening his door wider to see if there was an additional angle he was missing even though he'd already checked the vantage point half a dozen times.

Slowly, the fifteen minutes were ticking by.

* * *

Max ducked when he saw Drake emerge from the service entry. "Jim," he said, feeling his franticness double. "Drake's just come out of the back of the hotel."

"I don't like that," said Jim. "He likes to set up the job and be gone."

A second passed, and it dawned on Jim. "Grant! Get out of there! Get out now!" he ordered.

* * *

tbc


	10. Chapter Nine

**Episode One: Killer**

**Chapter Nine**

_

* * *

_

_"Grant! Get out of there! Get out now!" _Jim's voice boomed over Grant's communicator.

He wasted no time complying. Doing a job well was one thing—being stupid was another.

He'd barely made it to the door when he felt the explosion swell behind him. Time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once, sound catching up with him somewhere in the middle. The door in front of him flew off its hinges, yanked magically open by a giant hand. Seconds later he was crashing into it, slamming hard where the door came to rest at a lean against the far corridor wall.

He landed in a crumpled heap at its base.

Displacement seized him, confusing his base of equilibrium so completely he couldn't figure out which way was up. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Nicholas pounding toward him—heard the shout of his own name cut through the fuzzy haze.

"_Grant!_"

Grant felt Nicholas grip his arms and tried unsuccessfully to answer.

"_Grant!_" Nicholas repeated, with such force and worry Grant felt he ought to be flattered. He tried to pull himself together, tried to get his mouth to work, his brain to function. On an innate level he realized the team needed to know he was okay. More pointedly, he needed _Jim_ to know he was okay—worse than their leader seeing him as a ten-year-old boy, he decided, would be their leader seeing him as an injured ten-year-old boy.

He struggled to pull himself upright but Nicholas's forceful hands wouldn't let go. He was holding Grant back against the angled door he'd been blown up with, and was attempting to see into Grant's eyes.

Grant blinked carefully and shifted. Nicholas didn't move, grip caught tight. "_Grant_, are you okay?"

Grant coughed, working his throat. "I'm alright!" he croaked, trying again to move himself up or, at the least, shift away from the piece of wood digging into his back. He tested the other sensations in his body as he did so, hoping to find what he was telling Nicholas was really true.

"Are you _sure_?" Nicholas didn't sound convinced and his grip didn't lessen in the slightest.

"I'm okay!" Grant insisted again. Either the annoyance in his voice finally prompted Nicholas to let go or he'd actually been convincing in his insistence, because Nicholas's strong hands were suddenly gone—

_"Jim! Yeah, Grant seems okay."_

—or maybe Nicholas was just reaching for his communicator.

As he listened to the short conversation, a steadying hand returned to his arm. A careful grip, just above his elbow. As insistent as Grant had felt only moments before, he was grateful for the firm hold. The anchoring touch reduced the ringing in his ears and the tingling spinning out from the back of his head.

It gave him a focal point to lean into as he checked the rest of his body, discovering—thankfully—that nothing felt acutely painful. He started to believe he really was fine. He released a rough lungful of air and felt the tightness in his chest level out.

Already, the smoke was clearing and the air he drew into himself felt fresher and cleaner than he'd expected. He relaxed, leaned himself back against the door, and closed his eyes to savor their close victory. He heard Nicholas sigh, sounding relieved.

_"Good,"_ Grant heard Jim say, and the conversation going on over his head no longer felt so far away. They were still in the game, way ahead of Scorpio, even if it didn't feel like it.

"Alright, it's still working," Jim said next. "We are one step away from Scorpio."

* * *

Max heard Nicholas tell Jim that Grant seemed okay, but the smoke streaming from the windows above fed the worry in his gut. The callous, too casual stance of Drake as he exited the hotel and moved to the river walk further fed his anger. "Jim, I think Drake is heading back to the gardens. Do you want me to stay on him? Or do you need my help back here?"

Max felt torn. He didn't want to chance loosing Drake again, but he knew if Grant were injured, the other agents would need his help. He also wanted to visibly see that Grant was okay.

"You'd better stay on him," answered Jim, sounding breathless. Max surmised that Jim was in rout to the fifth floor via the stairs. "Nicholas and I can handle things here," Jim further assured. "And you'd better inform our London agents to pull the cabs back. We don't want Drake to somehow end up at the real Raeburn."

"Gotcha. I'm on it. Jim—"

"I'm sure Grant is okay," Jim cut his question short, aptly reading his mind. "You heard what Nicholas said. We figured it out in time. We did good work." Max heard, and was grateful for, the hidden subtext in Jim's statement. Things hadn't gone according to plan but they'd pulled together as a team.

Grant was okay. Grant was okay.

They'd made it work and Max could bear no blame.

"Thanks Jim," he finished simply.

"Max?"

"Yeah?"

"You'd better give Casey a head's up. I'm sure she's back at the hotel by now, and we might be late. She might be worried."

"On it, Jim." He paused to punch a different button on his communicator, never taking his eyes from Drake's casual stroll. "Casey," he said when she answered, "We should be on our way back to the hotel soon. Hopefully the others will beat Drake there, but if not, you've got to be ready."

* * *

By the time Jim made it to the fifth floor, Nicholas was having a hard time keeping Grant stationary and sirens were blaring in the distance. The hotel personnel had already called the police. Both were reasons Jim wanted to get them out of there as soon as possible.

After speaking with Max, he'd radioed Tim Conner at their base of operations, asking the London agent to come deal with the local authorities. Tim confirmed that he was already on his way—ready and willing to do whatever they needed.

The third reason they needed to leave quickly was Casey. If Drake went straight back to the hotel, even if returning via the botanical gardens, there was a strong likelihood he'd beat them back to their Raeburn. Casey was capable of handling things alone, but Jim would rather she didn't have to. He already had one team member potentially wounded. He couldn't allow another.

As he made his way down the hall, he could hear tones of disagreement going on between his agents. Voices arguing in hushed tones. He couldn't tell what was being said, but he could imagine, and he hoped Grant was as okay as he was claiming.

"Is he alright?" Jim asked Nicholas as he drew close.

Grant was sitting with his back to the wall, low voice making an intent case to the other agent. He looked pale, and a little shaky.

"Seems to be," Nicholas answered, releasing Grant's shoulder and rising from his crouch. He took an added step back to allow Jim room, looking relieved at his presence.

"_He_ is fine," Grant carefully enunciated, throwing a glare at Nicholas before starting to get up again. To his obvious annoyance Jim clamped a hand on his shoulder, keeping him floor-bound while taking over Nicholas's previous position of squatting in front of him.

Grant met his eyes immediately. The pupil's were even and his eyes full of clarity. Jim looked up at Nicholas for anything else he might need to know.

"Just banged up with a few scratches I think," Nicholas answered, "but he's bruised his back pretty close to the kidney."

"But that's _all_ it is," Grant cut in. "A bruise. I'll let you know if anything else seems wrong."

Jim, again, peered intently into Grant's eyes, then looked back up at Nicholas with a quirked eyebrow, clearly—though no words were spoken—asking the agent's opinion on the matter.

Nicholas pursed his lips.

"Besides," Grant cut in to the silent exchange, pointedly trying to direct the flow of their thoughts, "If we don't get back to our hotel soon, we won't be there to back up Casey."

That statement seemed to get them moving. After trading more looks, Nicholas nodded at Jim decisively. Jim returned a nod of his own. Together they reached out to help Grant stand, neither letting go until they were sure of his ability to walk steadily without aid.

* * *

Max followed Drake vigilantly as he strolled the river walk, looking like any overworked businessman anxious to enjoy some fresh air at the close of a hectic workday. As they got closer to the gardens Max asked the London dispatcher to redirect the taxi cabs away from his location—and to send in one of their agent's cabs instead. When the river walk ended, that precaution paid off. Drake stepped into the only cab on the street and was shortly after returned to the fake Raeburn Hotel.

Max relaxed, watching him go, the franticness eating his stomach receding to memory. Of course, he still had one reason to worry—they'd set Casey up in a position where Drake would surely try to kill her—he hoped her performance tonight was as good as it had been that afternoon.

* * *

By the time they exited the hotel's grand lobby, Grant was certain he'd finally convinced the others his injuries were minimal. The three of them double-timed it back, arriving just as dusk was seizing the city. They found Casey waiting for them in the war room.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

"Smooth as butter," Grant lied, shooting Nicholas a dark look before the other agent could speak.

During the ride back from Breton's, Grant had very carefully tried to maneuver Jim and Nicholas past any discussion relating to his painful—but _insignificant_—bruises and he currently didn't want any part of the explosion to be brought up again, _ever_.

Jim and Nicholas rolled their eyes but Max's current signal over their communicators cut off anything more they might have said, prompting Grant to mouth a silent "thank you" to the absent agent.

"Go ahead, Max," Jim answered the call.

"Drake's on his way," Max told them. "He'll be there in less than five."

"Are we all set?" Jim looked at Casey then back to Grant. They both nodded. "Alright, you'd better head up," Jim told Casey.

With a deep breath and a confident smile, she started up the stairs.

"And _you'd_ better get some ice on your back if you don't want to wake up tomorrow to discover you can't move," Jim chided Grant, who was already deeply focused on his computer monitor.

"There's an icepack in the brown supply box," informed Nicholas helpfully as he moved up the stairs after Casey.

"I know," Grant acknowledged dryly, now completely annoyed with the unnecessary fussing, "I packed it."

* * *

It was dark by the time Drake made it back to his hotel room. He was still feeling the satisfied elation he often felt after flawless jobs, and this time he was allowing himself to enjoy the success just a little more. All that remained was arranging the payoff. After that he could be gone, if he wanted to be.

That was something else to consider. The payment arrangement would give him a chance to see Scorpio's redhead again. Maybe, if things went well he really would contemplate staying. He'd earned it this time.

A new deskman was manning the counter when he walked in and he aptly surmised the Raeburn's staff had traded to the night shift. The man barely acknowledged him as he passed. Drake was okay with that. Hotel night shifters were never as observant as the day staff.

The stairs and hallway were well lit and as he opened the lock on his hotel room door he had to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He shut the door behind him and felt around the wall for the light switch. He found it easily, flipping on the entryway light before moving further into the room, preparing to relax a bit before he decided whether or not to leave.

He reached out to flip on the main light at the edge of the entry hall and was pleasantly surprised by the sight that greeted him.

"Welcome home." Scorpio's redhead was standing on the far side of his room, looking sly and inviting.

"Well, well, well," he said, setting his briefcase on the floor, smiling lightly, but when he looked up again she was pointing a gun at his heart.

He froze, then shifted. Acting unbothered by the gun, he graced the woman with an enigmatic smile while tossing his keys onto the bed in front of her. The minute her eyes flickered toward them, he bolted back down the entryway, hearing the gun—complete with silencer—strike a bullet into the wall behind him.

Another bullet hit the hallway lamp to his left, sending a shower of sparks over his head, plunging the entryway to dark. By that point he was sure her next bullet wouldn't miss.

"Step away from the door!" she ordered.

He slammed the barely opened door angrily before turning to face her, following her signal to move back into the main part of the room while evaluating her, looking for an opening to outmaneuver whatever she intended. "Alright, let's settle down here," he calmed, holding his hands up in a reassuring gesture. "Now, who are you?"

"I guess you could say I'm your replacement," she smiled. "I told you, you were becoming too famous. Scorpio doesn't like that."

"_Scorpio_ sent you?" The shock wasn't feigned. He didn't think it possible. Scorpio should know better than to do something like this.

"The old company loyalty isn't what it used to be," she answered, nearly laughing. She was enjoying this. How could he have read her so wrong? "I guess the proverbial gold watch looks pretty good right now, doesn't it."

Drake saw his opportunity and took it. Flipping off the room's main light with his already upraised hand, he ducked and leapt for her at the same time. He found he was stronger than her by far and it took almost nothing for him to overpower her and take away the gun.

* * *

Next door, in room number eight, Nicholas listened to Casey and Drake's confrontation—transmitted to him by Grant over his communicator. Down in the war room, the others were listening as well.

Like him, Nicholas knew none of them would hesitate to act if Casey got in over her head. So far, Casey was taking the subtle, yet overprotective, stance of the guys around her with a bit of amusement. If anything, her dismissive reaction had increased the protective stance they'd taken. They weren't trying to be sexist, they just didn't want anything to happen to her.

When Nicholas heard Drake start to overpower Casey, he cursed the fact that he couldn't see what was going on. "Can you see?" he asked Grant. "Did he get the gun?"

"It's too dark to tell, but I think so," Grant answered.

"Ahh," they both heard her cry out. "No. No, please!" she said next.

Nicholas tensed.

"Loyalty," Drake's sneer was crystal clear over his communicator. It was followed by the unmistakable sound of a muted gun discharging twice in quick succession.

Nicholas winced with the sounds, pressing close to the door, he peered carefully into the hallway—holding his breath as he lifted his communicator close to his ear to listen. He didn't want to miss anything.

Drake dripped his final sentence disdainfully, "I'll teach Scorpio about loyalty."

Nicholas put his hand on the doorknob.

"_Wait_, Nicholas," Grant reminded. Nicholas realized the other agent had already come to know him too well if he could perceive his intentions without even seeing him. Following the command, he waited, staying hidden until he saw Drake pass his door and take to the stairs with fervor.

Certain then that Drake was gone, he wasted no more time. "Casey?" he called, walking into the room's dark interior. He spotted her on the floor near the bed and moved to help her up, tightly grasping the hand she stretched toward him. "You alright?" he asked.

"For someone who just got hit by a train?" she answered lightly, smirk indicating the exploding packets of blood rigged under her shirt. "Fine—just fine." The packets had broken open perfectly when Drake fired the blanks at her chest—but it still hurt. She waved her hand in the air—trying not to fiddle with the fake blood.

Nicholas grinned at her sarcasm. She'd done well.

Jim was next into the room, his pace hurried and his look sufficiently worried. He was visibly relieved to see the young woman standing and laughing. "Nice work, Casey."

She nodded, pleased.

"Drake's on his way to Heathrow," Jim informed them next. "Max is following."

The agents nodded, clearly content, this was what they'd been waiting for.

"Next stop, Scorpio."

* * *

tbc


	11. Chapter Ten

**Episode One: Killer**

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

The next thirty minutes saw the IMF agents furiously preparing to leave Europe. A lot of their equipment would be taken care of by the London agents and, where necessary, sent to them later. They would take only what they could—the essentials.

"Grant, don't lift that, it's too heavy."

"I can carry my own computer, Nicholas, I brought it in here."

"We just don't want you straining your back," Casey jibed, taking the computer out of his hands before he had time to protest. He watched her carry the computer outside, and when he looked back, Nicholas was laughing.

"Uh huh," said Grant. "Better laugh it up now because someday soon, you're going to get kicked in the shin and I'll convince everyone on the team that your leg is broken."

Nicholas laughed more.

"_I'm_ supposed to be the official medic on this team, remember?" Grant complained. "I mean, did everyone forget that?"

Nicholas's smile abruptly died. The look he threw Grant spoke volumes. They _weren't _a team. They'd been brought together for one mission and one mission only.

The illusion of the alternative was enticing. The ability to think as a team had come about so easily that it already felt real. And because it was so easy to think about, it was easy to joke about also.

Grant stopped and returned the look.

Max's call over their communicators interrupted the silence.

"Go ahead, Max," Jim said coming down the back stairs.

"Irony of ironies, Jim," said Max. "Drake just purchased a ticket back to San Francisco."

"Interesting news," affirmed Jim. "What about us?"

"Our plane is waiting on the runway now. All you have to do is get here."

"You heard the man," Jim said. "Let's go."

With a last look at Grant, Nicholas nodded quickly. He picked up the brown supply box and headed out.

The final item in the room was the IMF copier, already folded into its case and ready to move. Grant reached for the handle but Jim beat him to it. The younger agent exhaled, exasperated, but it didn't seem to bother Jim. He looked just as amused as Nicholas had earlier.

He set a gentle hand on Grant's shoulder. "Grant," he said, giving his shoulder a squeeze, setting his face in a sage expression. "Sometimes you've got to learn to accept… a little help from your friends." Then, looking around the empty room with a satisfied nod, gave Grant's shoulder one last squeeze and followed Nicholas out the back door.

* * *

_"You've been waiting for someone to betray you," Nicholas restated. "Is that why you're here?"_

_Tom looked down, running a finger along his jaw._

_Nicholas wasn't sure he had the right to push, but he did anyway. "Did it ever happen?"_

_"Not as I thought it would," said Tom. "See, I always thought it would be someone inside the IMF… someone who would have the means and experience to do it right. I used to dream about it, before every mission… what it would mean if one of the agents turned on me. What would it mean if they weren't who I thought they were? I felt if I got too close to any of them, I'd lose my objectivity."_

_"But why would they?" Nicholas asked. "Have you had reason to suspect?"_

_"They wouldn't," Tom said. "I suppose that's what I've been most wrong about."_

_"But someone has betrayed you. Someone else then? Someone outside IMF?"_

_"Yes," said Tom. "Someone… someone I've known for a long time. Someone I thought I could trust."_

_"You can trust me," Nicholas said simply, worried that the effort Tom had extended in coming here might be lost in purpose if he didn't say it._

_Tom smiled solemnly, looking up at him. "I was hoping I could."_

"Nick? Nicholas? Nicholas? Are you alright?"

"What?" Nicholas tore his gaze from the scenery outside the car window, meeting Grant's imploring expression.

"I asked if you were okay, man. You looked a little out of it."

"Tired I guess," he answered. "It's been a long couple days… for everyone."

"Yeah," Grant seemed to accept the answer. "We've got a long flight ahead of us. Hopefully you can sleep on the plane. You didn't really look rested when you showed up at Jim's."

_"Look, Tom, you're telling me someone close to you is really Scorpio—a known, or rather an "unknown" known criminal king. Someone you've looked up to. I'm willing to follow up on the information you gave me, but it doesn't give me a whole lot to go on, nor does it explain why you flew across the continent to ask a complete stranger to check it out for you. I'd just like a little more information if I'm going to back you up. I don't like the idea of you going into this alone." Nicholas had the sudden eerie feeling that if Tom left now, without telling the whole story, without identifying Scorpio, he'd be stepping right back into his weary world of self-reliance and suspicion. Justified paranoia._

_"Like I said, I've read your file," said Tom. "You're the best disguise artist IMF has to offer, amazing with languages, and a master of information and intelligence. If I had a set team, you'd be on it." Tom stood up to leave, clamped a hand to Nicholas's shoulder, and looked suddenly like he didn't have a care in the world. He looked determined and confident and like going after Scorpio was going to be the time of his life. "I just need someone I trust to know… in case things go south."_

_Tom smiled, but it just didn't feel right. _

_Nicholas stood, trying to think what he could say to stop him. Trying to get Tom to just tell him who Scorpio was. That would at least give him the chance to back him up whether he wanted it or not. "Tom," he said._

_The team leader paused at the exit to stage left, waiting to hear what Nicholas would say._

_"Please. If you need help… if you need my presence on this, I'm here."_

_"I know," said Tom. "Thank you."_

"Nicholas?"

Nicholas realized Grant was still looking at him, waiting for some sort of furthered explanation of why he'd look tired from day one of their job. "I don't always sleep well on planes," he hedged, shrugging, then considered Grant with a critical eye. "You look kind of tired yourself."

"Like you said, man, long few days for all of us."

Nicholas nodded his head toward the front seat of the car they rode in. Cut off from their conversation by the taxi partition, they could still see Jim at the wheel and Casey looking tired in the passenger seat. "For Jim most of all… I'm not sure he's really slept at all."

"How could he? If I lost someone I cared about that much, it might just be the thing to break me."

"We're IMF agents," said Nicholas. "They choose us because we're hard to break."

Grant flashed a half-smile, nodding in return. "My dad used to tell me you're not broken unless you stop caring."

"I like that," said Nicholas, meaning it. "I've heard a lot about your father. If you're anything like the things I've heard about him, you'll never get broken."

"Thanks," said Grant, huffing a laugh. After a silent moment, his grin broke wider. He looked left, out his window, to see they'd arrived at the airport. Max waiting for them at the entrance of a private gate.

His distraction cost him, and he missed the sly and calculating look Nicholas gave him as the car stopped. "Unless of course you get blown up again," Nicholas threw at him suddenly, "—kidneys can only take so much."

Grant's jaw dropped. Turning away toward his open door, Nicholas grinned. On the other side of the car, Max looked in Grant's open door. He'd obviously overheard the comment, because he set a hand on Grant's shoulder and asked seriously, "Are you hurt?"

"He bruised his back in the explosion," Casey explained as she stepped out of the car.

Jim popped the trunk and Nicholas started unloading the supplies.

"Is he okay?" Max asked.

"As long as he keeps icing it, he should be," answered Jim, moving to help Nicholas. Nicholas looked out at the co-pilot who was jogging across the tarmac to join them, and kept his gaze pinned to the approaching figure, eyes averted from Grant's, pretending to be completely focused on other things.

Grant scowled deeper, glaring at Nicholas over the car's roof. "Will you all just drop it already?

Nicholas laughed.

* * *

The private jet carried the five IMF agents all the way to San Francisco. A long flight, and though Jim had encouraged his agents to rest, he knew none of them got much sleep. He himself managed to doze less than an hour in all. Each time his mind began to settle, the residue of his elusive and lingering dream would rise up around him.

The hours he spent awake weren't much better. His agents hardly spoke.

Jim wasn't sure if they were trying to allow each other to sleep, were lost in their own contemplative thoughts, or if returning to California so soon had also given them a too literal reminder of the dead man's job they were finishing.

The past reached out to Jim. Tom was still haunting him and he just had to hope that one way or another it would all be over soon.

_"Jim, when are you going to stop lecturing me on choosing a team?"_

_"When you finally choose one," Jim retorted._

_"Aren't you the one who is always telling me that not adapting or allowing change weakens your ability to lead? So, I work with a lot of different agents, but I've learned more about adapting and change than ever."_

_"This isn't the same concept," he reiterated. The argument was already old between them, and had long since slipped passed the intensity it used to carry. They now passed their opinions off to each other casually—the true intensity of their feelings slipping in just below the surface. "Accepting change doesn't mean changing all the time," repeated Jim for what felt like the millionth time. "There's a balance to it. You can't stare into the past and wait for it to come back to you anymore than you can try pushing into the future by not building a present."_

_"You're starting to sound like a Chinese fortune cookie," Tom complained._

_Jim just smiled. "Adaptation and change doesn't mean being alone, Tom."_

_That finally seemed to bring Tom's silence. __"I do think about building a team," he admitted. "But when I do, I want to make sure I do it right."_

_Jim gave him a knowing look. Tom had always been a bit too much of a perfectionist. It made him a top team leader, but it also worked against him. "Mistakes are always made, Tom—" _

_The phone in Tom's kitchen started ringing._

_Throwing Jim a shrug, Tom left to answer it, leaving Jim's final phrase unheard. "When you have a team, you don't have to do it all—or do it all right—because someone is there to cover the angles you're bound to miss." The words were swallowed into empty space, the only reply being the distant murmur of Tom's telephone conversation._

_Jim shook himself. He dismissed the intense thoughts. Tom would somehow find his own way._

"Jim," Nicholas gripped Jim's shoulder to get his attention. "The pilot says we'll be touching down in about twenty minutes.

Jim blinked, staring into Nicholas's face. The superimposed image of Tom he'd placed over the actual young man before him was fading. Whatever familiarity resounded between the two individuals in his mind was vanishing into the background and allowing him to see… just Nicholas. He wondered absently if he'd been doing exactly what he'd told Tom not to—ignoring the reality of the present by looking for the past. "How far behind us is Drake's plane?" he asked, sitting up straight and buckling his seatbelt.

"Over two hours," Max answered, from the seat adjacent.

Nicholas resumed his own place next to Casey, buckling his seatbelt as well.

"When Drake's plane touches ground we should have plenty of time to take position and track him," Max added next.

Jim nodded.

* * *

A few short hours later proved Max was right. By the time Drake's plane touched down, the team was more than ready to effectively follow his movements, tracking him as he hailed a cab from the airport, and though this one wasn't driven by an agent, Grant tapped into the dispatcher's feed and using two different cars they followed the yellow cab easily.

They weren't far into the journey before Jim realized where they were probably going to end up.

Sure enough—and not quite long enough later—they were standing at the base of the building where Tom had been murdered. Jim wasn't sure if the other agents knew. They knew how he had died, but would they know this as the building from which he'd fallen?

Nicholas stood silently next to him at the building's base while Max continued to track Drake inside, hoping to pin down his precise destination. The way Nicholas kept alternating his stare between the top of the building and the blacktop of the silent parking lot, convinced Jim that Nicholas knew exactly what had transpired here.

Max jogged up to them shortly. "Drake went in a few minutes ago," he told them.

Nicholas stared upwards again and Jim saw Max throw him a curious glance.

"This is where Tom Copperfield died," Jim said aloud, not certain if he were explaining to Max, or trying to wrap his own brain around the reality. Tom really had been close to Scorpio—too close.

Nicholas turned his compelling stare toward Jim. "Alfred Chambers lives in the penthouse," he explained distinctly, an edge of bitterness to his voice. "He was supposed to be Tom Copperfield's _friend_."

Jim heard clearly the hidden inferences Nicholas was making as well as the emphasis he placed on the word _friend_.

He realized, Nicholas had been doing his own investigating into the lives of those surrounding Tom Copperfield and clearly knew quite a bit about Alfred Chambers. If the tone of his voice indicated anything, it was that Alfred Chambers hadn't just been a pretend friend of Tom-the-undercover-agent, but a supposed real friend of Tom the man.

Thinking through the information, Jim realized that Alfred Chambers had been in attendance at Tom's funeral. The awareness sickened him. Jim shook his head in disgust. He gave Nicholas a questioning glance, wanting to know what else he'd found out about Chambers and why. He suddenly wanted to know everything Nicholas might - why he'd investigated Chambers, how long he'd suspected him, and why he'd remained silent about it until now.

Nicholas swallowed, keeping his eyes on Jim. "The preliminary investigation cleared him of any involvement," he explained, and that answer alone revealed a lot. Whatever hunches Nicholas might have had regarding Chambers at the initiation of the case, they'd already been disproved by investigators. He'd done what Jim would've. He'd been smarter to wait and see where their own investigation led them. He'd been smarter to wait and see if it would confirm his suspicions or discount them, rather than risk rash accusations that could potentially skew the focus of their team.

Jim accepted the simple statement, thinking, _the police might have cleared the man of involvement but_—"Maybe Mathew Drake didn't," he concluded aloud. "Police?" he asked Max.

"Yeah, they're on their way."

Jim would have to be satisfied with that. Whatever justice Scorpio had coming to him for the murder and betrayal of Tom Copperfield would be measured out by his own assassin. In truth, Jim could think of nothing more fitting.

Nicholas stared up at the penthouse again and Max joined him—as though they thought by staring they'd somehow be able to see what was actually going on.

* * *

Alfred Chambers ambled slowly from his bedroom into his large study. He didn't bother to turn on any lights—he knew the way—and to be honest, he didn't mind the dark. So many people panicked when the lights went out, figuratively or literally, it didn't matter. He'd amassed an entire fortune by simply not being afraid to walk in the shadows the rest of the world feared—letting his eyes see what others couldn't or wouldn't see, entertaining possibilities they wouldn't consider.

Nostalgically, he recalled thinking that young Tom was a lot like him in those respects, seeing the possibilities, accepting the reality of shadows. It had been a shame to have to kill him, but he knew, somehow, Tom had found out. He couldn't trust what the young man might do with the information because while Tom saw the shadows as much as he did, he'd still lived in the light.

_Foolish. Foolish boy_.

Chambers unbuttoned his smart-looking, white suit coat and sat down in the large chair behind his desk. Using his elegant lamp to counteract the dimness of the room, he started making the final calls of the day. "Barry? This is Chambers," he stated briskly when the other end of the line was picked up. "I want you to put the heat on that amalgamator crap. I want him out of the game now, okay? Get back to me on it." He hung up the phone and readied to make his next call.

He never got to.

Drake shot the poisoned dart with ease. He watched Chambers clutch at his neck where the poisoned dart struck him. He watched the realization of what had just happened to him dawn on his face, just as it had dawned on the face of Tom Copperfield.

Denial resonated in Scorpio's eyes, panicked in a way Copperfield hadn't allowed his to be.

"I'm breaking a golden rule with you," Drake explained to Chambers coldly. "I'm killing you the same way I killed Copperfield."

"Why?" gritted Chambers, still in denial, still in panic.

"Call it a lesson in loyalty," Drake bit out and saw something flash in Chambers eyes—_perhaps he'll die with a bit of fight after all_, he thought. He simply grinned when Chambers pulled the gun from his desk and tried to fire it at him ineffectually. "What do you think I am?" he scorned. "You think I'm stupid?" Removing the bullets was the first thing he'd done.

Horror was starting to fill Chambers' face. The drug would soon completely take over. Drake relaxed. He wasn't going to leave quickly like he did all the others. He was going to stick around and watch this one… to the bitter end. And he'd enjoy it.

Chambers was tilting off balance, clutching at his desk to keep himself upright. The motion seemed a natural reaction to the drug. Drake didn't see Chambers' fingers close around an ornate, and sharp, letter opener, and was doubly surprised when—on the brink of losing total control to the drug—Scorpio found the strength and power to hurl it at him, sticking him right between the ribs.

Drake still got the pleasure of watching Scorpio go mad and take a flying leap from the balcony, but his view of the spectacle was from the floor where he gasped for breath and felt his blood seeping out of him. The only joy he felt when his victim finally jumped was the certainty that he'd soon be seeing Alfred Chambers in hell.

* * *

Police sirens were ringing in the distance when Max and Nicholas's vigilant staring was finally rewarded. "Jim," they whispered simultaneously.

Jim looked up to see Alfred Chambers leap from the balcony. He set his jaw grimly when the body struck ground, closed his eyes and wondered silently if Tom would think of this as justice or irony.

* * *

"_Do we have an identity on the dead man?"_ a cop could be overheard saying as the IMF agents congregated near the edge of the police tape, all of them feeling the need to see this particular job through to the end.

_"Alfred Chambers,"_ another cop answered excitedly. _"It's crazy! Three weeks ago a guy jumped from the penthouse. Now the guy who lives there takes a dive after getting some other guy with a knife!"_

_Letter opener,_ Jim silently corrected.

By this point, police had tapped off the entire area and covered Chamber's body with a sheet. Jim felt the need for a final look. He walked carefully over to where Chambers lay and shifted the covering from the man's face. He wasn't sure it meant anything but he thought abruptly that Alfred Chambers looked quite a bit like him.

Max and Nicholas followed, standing next to him. If they noticed the resemblance they didn't say anything. Jim flipped the sheet back in place then moved over to where the paramedics where loading the injured but alive Mathew Drake into an ambulance.

If he survived his injury, Drake would be spending the remainder of his days in prison. IMF would make certain of it. Not to mention several other countries who would be vying to prosecute the man for crimes in their own nations.

As far as justice went, it would have to do. Even so, Jim wanted to look the man in the eye—wanted him to somehow know how methodically he'd been taken down, if not why. He wanted him to know all his carefulness and random planning hadn't kept him from paying for his crimes.

Max and Nicholas flanked him where he stood in front of the stretcher. Jim was pleased to see Drake's eyes, pleased to see them settle on each of them in turn, no doubt wondering how two London cab drivers and a hotel concierge had come to be with him in San Francisco.

His eyes widened even more when the trio was joined by the man and the woman he'd killed less than twenty-four hours ago.

It was then Jim saw it—the realization that he'd been set up and would spend the rest of his life trying to figure out how.

"It's over," Jim stated, not certain if he were speaking to Drake, to his team, or to himself—certain only that the sticky sense of incompleteness was finally leaking out of his system, like sweat after a long run—a marathon run. He was weary with relief and wallowing in the knowledge that all he had left to him now was the mourning for his friend.

He spoke aloud, solidifying the feeling and the moment, "Tom Copperfield's job is finished."

* * *

tbc

* * *

Side note: I don't remember the original series well enough to know if they used it then, but it may be of interest to you that the phrase, "Accept a little help from your friends," or, "With a little help from my friends," is used throughout the 1988 series… or more appropriately stated, phrases that play off the song, "I get by with a little help from my friends," are used with varying degree in nearly every episode.

I don't have a complete running catalogue, but I believe the phrase is most often said by Grant and Jim. One example includes an episode where Nicholas asks Jim if he can make it out to their car after he's been shot. Jim immediately responds, "With a little help from my friend." After which Nicholas helps him out to the car. In another episode, Jim asks Grant if he can complete a particularly difficult request and Grant answers quickly, "With a little help from my friends."

I'm not sure who thought of it, or when it first showed up on the series, or how using the phrase got started, but it's a fun quirk of the series I enjoy. I couldn't help but add it to this "episode." I also feel like it epitomizes the Mission: Impossible universe, and is the key component missing from the movies (mwah, I might stop whining about that one of these days).

Hope you are enjoying the read.


	12. Epilogue

**Episode One: Killer**

_**Epilogue**_

* * *

When the team got back to the house, it was late. Very late.

Jim surveyed his agents tiredly. They all looked worn, and as exhausted as he felt, if not more so, and even though he told them not to, Max and Casey sapped the last of their energy constructing a light meal for them in the kitchen while Grant got on the phone to arrange the final details of the job with their contacts in England and Nicholas unloaded Grant's computer and their other basic supplies into the storage closet they'd come out of.

It was well after midnight when the four young agents finally slipped off to their separate bedrooms. Jim wondered if he would sleep that night or not, or if he would be haunted again by that elusive dream. Left to his own thoughts, his mind drifted back to Tom, hollow echoes flitting through his memory.

_"You know Jim, I've been thinking," said Tom, lounging stiffly back on the deck of Jim's boat. He'd shown up on Jim's doorstep with an easy set to his shoulders, but a shadowed look in his eye, tired, telling Jim he'd just flown in from a trip back east, but wouldn't say whether it was for work or not._

_"I've heard team leaders try to do that on occasion," Jim answered, leaning back in his own chair, straight-faced and automatic. Rolin had rubbed off on him more than he would have chosen._

_Tom let out a burdened laugh before giving Jim his "this is serious" expression._

_"Alright," Jim conceded. He wanted to hear what Tom would say. He still didn't know what Tom was working on, or what white bread crumbs he'd been following. He only knew it seemed personal. He'd seen it enough in his former teammates to recognize the signs, and while having a personal stake didn't exclude an agent from being able to handle a case, Jim worried. "Alright, tell me. What have you been thinking about?" Jim asked._

_"That you're right," answered Tom._

_"Of course I am," said Jim—Willy's influence this time. He waved his hand to cut short Tom's obligated reaction to his sarcasm. "What about?" he asked seriously. "What am I right about?"_

_"Choosing a team."_

_Jim peered at him curiously, that being the last thing he'd expected to hear. "You're going to choose a team?" he asked doubtfully._

_"Yeah," Tom nodded. "I have one more thing to do, but as soon as I finish, I'll set it up."_

_"You sound pretty determined," Jim said carefully. He wanted to know if Tom was serious. He wanted to know what had finally changed his mind._

_"I've been reviewing some agents already," Tom confirmed. "There are some good agents with us—trustworthy, loyal."_

_Jim suddenly had a dozen questions in his mind but he opted to let Tom finish explaining first._

_"This job is in my blood," Tom continued, "and I realize I might want to do it a long while yet. But I know without people around me that I really trust, I won't last very long."_

_Jim kept his expression neutral, but nodded, feeling a ball of relief start to unravel in his gut._

_"Working in IMF—all the deception we create—I've started to see everyone around me with suspicion. I think that feeling wouldn't be so hard to work around, if there were at least some people in the world I never had to look at that way."_

_Jim sighed, grateful to hear Tom say it. It pinpointed why it bothered him when Tom worked alone. He'd never had to wonder if Barney, or Rollin, Cinnamon or Willy was going to betray him. The thought was ludicrous. If they ever had, or did, it'd be time for him to leave the business anyway. He wouldn't be able to work like that. He'd have bowed out or been taken out long ago. __"I'm glad, Tom," he said simply, thinking Tom looked more confident, and more at ease, than he'd ever seen him. "I'm really glad."_

* * *

Jim woke early the next morning to the poignant realization that Tom was really gone. The weight of the feeling, however, was tempered by the remembrance that Tom's killer had been identified and dealt with and that, for the first time since receiving the ugly midnight call telling him of Tom's death, Jim had slept soundly. He was no longer bothered by the lingering trace of an imagined dream.

Yet, even without that sticky feeling to gnaw at him, he knew there was one more thing he had to do.

He showered and dressed, feeling reasonably confident that he could be gone and back before the four young agents even noticed. After their scrambling and rushed mission, he expected them to be sleeping deeply and not to wake until far into the day. He was surprised when he made his way downstairs, to hear the three men of his team speaking to each other in the kitchen, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to use low voices.

Overcome with curiosity, Jim stopped in the doorway to surreptitiously listen.

_"…the best of the best,"_ Grant was saying. Jim could see he was leaning awkwardly in the stool he sat on, now very obviously favoring his bruised side.

"So was your father," commented Max.

Jim leaned forward discreetly, allowing himself to view the trio from a better angle, watching Max pull several handfuls of ice from the freezer and drop them into long, thin plastic bag.

"It wasn't just them as individuals though," Nicholas added to the conversation, looking extremely casual in his t-shirt and jeans. "They were unified. A genuine team. Where one dropped off another picked up. They fit together."

It dawned on Jim that they were talking about him or—more specifically—his former team.

"If we'd had Tom Copperfield as a team leader, we could have matched them mission for mission," Max claimed. He wrapped a thin towel around the bag of ice and slid it across the counter to Nicholas.

"No," said Nicholas. "For some reason, Tom never let himself build a team like Jim did. He didn't…" he broke off, shifting his weight as he glanced down. "And regardless, we don't have Tom—we have Jim. They're not the same."

Jim suddenly realized what it was about Nicholas that reminded him so much of Tom, and what about Nicholas was so fundamentally different. It had been there from the beginning.

_"Jim, I'm not going to let that happen,"_ Tom had said with the same intense intelligence displayed by Nicholas—their pragmatic and blunt natures impossible to tell apart.

_"Jim, _we're_ not going to let that happen,"_ he remembered Nicholas saying to him at the start of their mission. Where Tom had been constantly pushing away from the team dynamic, Nicholas counted on it. Jim couldn't help thinking then, that if Tom had thought a bit more like Nicholas he might still be alive. The thought hurt and he felt disloyal for thinking it.

"We don't even have _Jim_, Nicholas. This job was _temporary_, remember? _Ow_!" Nicholas had lifted Grant's shirt and not so gently pushed Max's icepack against the bruised kidney.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly.

"It's too bad that we don't," mused Max, ignoring Grant's expletives. "We'd be pretty formidable. One of us should at least talk to him about it."

"We can't force the man to return to IMF just because we want to stay together," said Grant, settling back in his chair with the icepack in place.

"You never really leave IMF—isn't that what you said, Grant? It's in your blood," Max protested.

"Yeah, that's what I said, and I believe it, but it doesn't matter what I believe or what I want. It matters what Jim wants."

"Look," Max said, holding up a hand to forestall any of Grant's further protests. "All I know is that we are a team and we should stay a team. We've all felt it. We can't just let this go."

"I agree with you, Max, I do," said Grant. "I've never worked with people I trusted so quickly, but there's got to be another way."

"Maybe we could find another team leader, or _Nicholas_—"

"No," Nicholas protested, not letting him finish. He held up a hand as he took a seat next to Grant. Jim had to admit he'd also thought Nicholas the most logical choice. He saw leadership potential in all of them, but Nicholas had the mind for it, and an innate quality the others looked to. Jim wondered at the adamant resistance.

"I'm not a team leader, Max. I don't want to be. Besides, if one part of the puzzle is missing the rest of the picture never quite looks the same. Jim Phelps is a key part of that picture. Those are the facts."

Jim was taken aback by the their strong feelings on the subject. They had clicked—he'd realized it too. He just wasn't certain he was capable of making a sound decision on the subject—not right then. Furthermore, he wasn't sure he was ready yet to let go of the past.

"One of us should at least _try_ to ask him," Max spoke into the silence, making it clear by his stare in Nicholas's direction just who he thought that person should be.

"Perhaps," Nicholas answered, acquiescing to Max with a noncommittal shrug. "But not right now. Right now, whether he is our leader or not, he's lost a good friend—a man who was very close to him. He deserves the time to mourn—with the support of his friends."

"That sounds like us," whispered Grant.

"You're right," Max agreed.

Slowly, Jim backed away from the conversation, awed and oddly pleased by his team's thoughts. He realized he was already thinking of them as his team, as his agents. He hadn't planned for this. By all accounts this _should have_ been Tom's team, but…

Apparently he had _a lot_ to think about.

* * *

The overheard conversation stayed with him on his way to the cemetery and he had to walk around a bit to clear his mind before finally making his way to Tom's grave. Even there, the questions it brought to mind wouldn't leave him alone.

_What am I doing, Tom?_ He asked the granite headstone. _I'm too old for this. _But he knew his decision had already been made. The loss of Tom had been devastating but the idea of working with the four young agents who'd so carefully helped with the capture of Tom's killer, changed that aching loss into a feeling of hope. _You're only in your early hundreds, you're not dead,_ he heard Tom say.

He stood motionless, dipping his head at the imagined approval.

He shouldn't have been surprised, then, when he turned around and saw the four agents standing solidly together several yards from Tom's grave. They looked solemn, but determined. He knew they were there to support him, needed or not.

He was grateful, flicking his eyes to Tom's headstone and back. "He was a good friend," he told them simply, letting them know that though the loss was painful he felt ready to move on.

Nicholas stepped forward. "What do you do now, Jim?" he asked carefully.

Jim could see in their faces the preparation to accept whatever answer he gave—could see Max was preparing for the worst, Grant and Nicholas trying to look neutral, and Case trying not to look sad.

He couldn't help but drag out his answer a little. Dropping his head with a somber expression he—for the first time since Tom's death—allowed a truly complete smile to grace his face. "Well," he said, looking up to meet their eyes, the grin playing at his lips. "I think I'll have to stay." He smiled wider at seeing the relieved expressions they exchanged.

"It'd be a shame to break up a nice team like this, wouldn't it?"

Nicholas nudged Max and Grant tapped Casey's shoulder, every one of them looking as content as Jim Phelps had ever wanted to be. He stepped forward, leading his new team out of the cemetery, feeling them border him naturally—Nicholas giving his shoulder a grateful grip, while on his other side, Grant graced him with a particularly reckless grin. Max and Casey strolled next to Grant, looking like brother and sister. Like family.

Somehow, Jim knew their future would hold no shortage of surprise.

* * *

The End

* * *

Pointless note: The epilog clearly ventures into the realm of cheesy, as does much of the rest of this, but I couldn't help it, so you'll just have to accept it as is. Thanks.

General Episode Review: This is a fun episode to watch but typical of the series there is a lot of exposition which makes writing out the story interesting. Once I had the core dialog written, it gave me some creative ideas on what to do with the rest of it. Though for this episode some of the plot holes were abnormally large and difficult to fill, it sort of seemed to work out. The watcher is required to suspend a few logical deductions and just go with the flow.

One must also assume that Jim has an uncanny ability to read people or find other unique ways to pick around the plot holes—some of which include: Since Drake was only going to be there for the day, and does everything at random—why did he even need to check into a hotel? If we pass that off as the team somehow knowing he always checked into a hotel, we are then left wondering why—if Drake was in such a hurry to make his call—he didn't just use the phone booth at the airport—or the phone on the street outside the hotel _before_ he checked in—etc. etc. There are others, of course, but the overall fun of this episode is to just go with it regardless, and, of course, imagine what the characters might be doing and saying behind the scenes, which is what I enjoyed. Thank you again for coming along for the ride.


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